With Affection
by PhiraLovesLoki
Summary: Emma Swan isn't a middle schooler. So why is she receiving notes from a secret admirer? She's also definitely not a romantic person. So why is she writing back? Modern!AU Captain Swan, with side orders of Snowing and Frankenwolf. Updated with second epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

**This story was written for tinkabelle26 (killians-tinkabelle) for the 2015 CSSV gift exchange on Tumblr. What was supposed to be a one-shot spiraled out of control into a 19-chapter story. Chapters with mature content will be indicated.**

* * *

Emma returned home from another particularly stressful day at work and almost didn't notice the envelope tucked under her doormat. It was one of those novelty doormats that Walsh gently insisted "real adults" didn't have, but it had been a gift from Ruby when she'd moved in two years ago. And besides, she thought it was funny; it said, "Welcome!" in large letters, and in a smaller font underneath, it said, "I hope you brought wine."

She crouched down, which was no small feat in a pencil skirt and heels while carrying three full canvas bags of groceries, grabbed the note with the only free fingers she had, and then jammed her key in the lock.

Once inside her apartment, she put away the groceries and rifled through the mail she'd grabbed on her way up. Nothing interesting: a catalog from a company whose mailing list she was reasonably sure she'd unsubscribed from, a couple pieces of junk mail, and a reminder from her apartment complex that laundry room hours were only from eight o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night because the noise from the machines was keeping neighboring tenants awake.

Emma rolled her eyes; that was completely the complex's fault. It was a large, state-of-the-art building with almost one hundred units, with laundry rooms on the first and third floors. But for some reason, they really didn't have enough machines to accommodate everyone. She was able to keep her laundry loads relatively manageable as a single woman in her late twenties. But even with one or two loads of laundry a week, she often found herself trudging back and forth with her heavy laundry basket, trying to score a machine. And there was no use trying the laundry room downstairs; if one room was completely busy, it was a guarantee that the other would be, too. Given that she was paying a fortune to live in her miniscule luxury studio, she was a little peeved that the laundry situation seemed impossible to sort out.

However, for once she was glad for the annoying flyer from the complex; it reminded her that she needed to do laundry. She'd _tried_ the day before, but Sundays were always a crapshoot, and she'd been out of luck. If she wanted a chance at even one of the machines tonight, she needed to get to the laundry room immediately. She began pulling off her clothes as she rushed towards her dresser, quickly changing into what she considered her "laundry outfit," and tossing most of her machine-washable work clothes in the hamper.

To her dismay, even at six o'clock on a Monday evening, most of the machines in her laundry room were in use. She groaned audibly, catching the attention of the incredibly hot guy from down the hall, who was in the process of loading a washer. He grinned shyly at her before returning to his task.

Of course Hot Guy would be here, she told herself. She never bumped into him at the pool where she could show off her toned physique. Nope—he only ever saw her in sweats while she did laundry, or in an oversized T-shirt and running tights as she sweat profusely at the fitness center on the first floor. The only people who ever saw her at the pool were Slightly Crazed Looking Lady, those Short Brothers who all lived in adjacent apartments, and Off-putting Creepy Teen.

It wasn't until she got back upstairs (mercifully, there'd been one washing machine left for her to use) that she remembered the note that had been stuck under her doormat. She examined the blank envelope as she microwaved leftovers. It was the same size as a typical mailing envelope for official documents and letters, but the ivory paper was of a heavier weight. This wasn't the kind of envelope she used at her office; it was more like the kind of envelope for important, fancy letters from important, fancy people. Inside was a short, typed message, out of place on the 8.5"x11" piece of paper of the same weight as the envelope.

_ It is my sincerest hope that you had a lovely Monday._

_ With affection,  
A secret admirer_

What?

She immediately grabbed her cell phone. "Ruby, you won't believe what I found under my doormat."

"Ugh, roaches? Those are super hard to get rid of. You're better off moving."

"Ew, no," she said, making a face. "I found a note from a … from a _secret admirer."_

Ruby snorted with laughter. "Are you serious?"

"I am completely serious."

"Is this middle school or something?"

"Right? I don't even know what to do! It's a little creepy!"

"Do you think it's from Walsh?"

"I hope not," she admitted. "This is a terrible way to say sorry, if it is. Maybe that's why it's typed, so I wouldn't recognize his handwriting." She pulled her now heated leftovers from the microwave and started looking for a clean fork. The fight with Walsh had left her in a funk all weekend and she hadn't gotten to the dishes.

"It's better than no apology at all."

"Hey," Emma said, her voice full of warning.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. At least he apologized for the fight. That's progress, right?"

"I … I guess, although it's not really an explicit apology."

"What? What does it say?"

"It just says, 'It is my sincerest hope that you had a lovely Monday.' And it's signed 'with affection.' You know, I think I'll just call him to talk to him about this."

"No, no, " Ruby said. "Honey, let's think about this. Maybe he's trying to bring the spark back into your relationship." Emma bit her tongue to avoid reminding Ruby that she had no business saying that, but then again, she'd been complaining about the lack of spark for a few months. "So you should just play along! Leave him a note in reply and see what he does."

"Hm. Maybe. I'll think about it." She dug into her dinner. "Anyway, how was your date yesterday?"

Ruby sighed. "It was just okay."

"Just okay? Was the date itself dull, or did you have sex and the sex was bad?"

"It was the date. It was okay, but I was so not attracted to her. I spent the whole time at lunch wishing I was hanging out with you guys," she explained. "Thank god Tink sent me a text an hour into the date! I lied and said my mom had gone to the hospital and that I needed to leave."

"Did your date buy it?"

"I'm not sure, but since I don't have plans to go out with her again, it doesn't really matter if she did or not." She sighed.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I guess. I'm just getting a little tired of all this, ya know? I'm not saying that I want what Mary Margaret has with David because, let's face it, that's _so_ not me."

Emma chuckled. David and Mary Margaret could be very stereotypically Disney when it came to their relationship. But then again, sometimes she was a little envious. And she knew Ruby was a little bit, too.

Ruby continued. "I'm just not really into the whole club scene anymore. It can't be _that_ hard to find someone who's fun to be around and who has the ability to blow my mind in bed. But it's like, either I go on dates with people I don't want to sleep with, or I sleep with people I'd never want to hang out with."

"You'll find someone, if that's something you want," Emma reassured her. "There's just a lot of trial and error."

"Easy for you to say," Ruby grumbled. "You're in a relationship."

Which _was_ true, but it didn't really _feel_ true.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Walsh called to ask her if she wanted to get dinner on Thursday. He didn't mention anything about the note, nor did he apologize for the things he'd said to her on Saturday. Either he hadn't left the note, or he wanted her to play along, so she didn't bring it up.

Instead, she just told him she'd think about it, but that she might have to work late Thursday. She felt a little guilty. It wasn't _actually_ an outright lie: she might have to work late Thursday. But it was a lie of omission; she could stay late Wednesday and come in early Friday, and then Thursday would work fine.

But she just didn't feel ready to see him. She called Mary Margaret.

"Hey, Emma, what's up?"

"Is this a bad time? I kind of need a sounding board."

"Go for it. I need a break from grading this assignment."

"Walsh wants to go out Thursday, I don't really want to go, and I need you to tell me why."

"I thought you said you needed a sounding board," her sister said warily.

"Okay," Emma said apologetically—sounding board meant talking it out. "We had a fight this weekend, and I guess I'm still angry with him."

"What did you guys fight about?" Emma appreciated the patience in Mary Margaret's voice, even though this was probably the twentieth time she'd called about problems with Walsh.

"Oh, you know, the same things. We were at his place, and he kept making all these comments about how nice it was that we could chill and watch on the couch—you know how much he hates that I don't have one. And he started talking about _when_ I moved in, what stuff did I think I'd bring with me."

"That's really presumptuous of him, given that you've told him repeatedly that you're not ready for that yet."

"Yes, _thank_ you!" Emma said forcefully. "Which is what I told him! And do you know what he said to me?"

"What?"

"He said that he knew it was going to happen for us eventually and he was just trying to find a way to ease into the discussion."

"Geez."

"And that's not even the best part."

"How is that _not_ even the best part?"

"The best part is that he started telling me what stuff from my place he thought would go well in his house, and he said—I still can't believe he said this—that he hoped I'd be okay _selling my dresser_ because there was one at his store that would go much better with his bedroom set."

"_Emma."_ Mary Margaret was clearly appalled. "He wants you to _sell_ it? I mean, that was his suggestion?"

"Yep," Emma confirmed. "I wondered if he just meant he'd buy a new dresser for me for the bedroom, and my dresser could go in another room. Like the guest room or something. And when he said no to that, I asked if maybe it could go in the basement, and we could use it for storage. He always goes _on_ and _on _about how he's going to finish the basement, so why not stick a dresser down there for storage, right?"

"And he doesn't even want it in his basement?"

"Nope. So of course I asked him, a little sarcastically, what I'd be allowed to bring with me, and he got angry with me. He said that he owns a furniture store and that it made him really particular about what he puts in his home. And I challenged him and said that either he could live in _his_ home or he could live in _our_ home, and he said that it would be _our_ home because we'd be together and that it didn't matter what stuff was there."

"That makes _no_ sense."

"No, it doesn't. And then I realized we were arguing about what would happen when we moved in together as if that was something that was actually happening for sure, when I really don't _want_ that right now."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I told him to drive me to the T station so I could come home, and he got really irritated."

"Because you were going home, or because you needed a ride?"

"Guess."

"Both?"

"Yep."

"You took a cab, didn't you?" Her sister knew her all too well.

"Yeah. I splurged and took it all the way home. I didn't want to deal with the T after all that."

"Has he apologized?"

"I don't think so."

"What does that mean?"

Emma sighed and pursed her lips briefly. She didn't like keeping things from Mary Margaret, but the more people she told about the note, the less she could ignore it. "Someone left a note under my doormat yesterday. A _secret admirer_, apparently. I can't tell if it's Walsh trying to … I don't know, fix the relationship by staging a situation where I fall in love all over again when I think he's a stranger, or something. I don't know." She couldn't really remember how Ruby had described it.

"I know," Mary Margaret replied. "Ruby told me. I don't think it's Walsh."

"Ugh, she _told_ you? How many people know?" _No one_ in this friend group could keep a secret!

"I haven't told anyone," her sister said defensively. "Well, except David, but that doesn't count."

Emma rolled her eyes; David was just as likely to blab as anyone. "So you guys don't think it's Walsh?"

"No. I hate to say it, but Walsh seems to be one of those people who likes to move past fights by pretending they never happened. Sending you notes pretending to be a secret admirer is way out of left field."

"So you don't think I should go to dinner?"

"Well, _you_ clearly don't want to go, so ..."

"Yeah, but I can't avoid him forever."

"Well, you _could_, but I'm supposed to be advising you to do the mature thing. What are you going to do about the note?"

"I should do something about the note?"

"Sweetie, you have a secret admirer. That's cute!"

"Cute like middle school," Emma said wryly. "How do I reply to it? Who do I give it to?"

"Just put it under your doormat."

"But, I mean, how do you reply to a message like that? 'It is my sincerest hope that you had a lovely Monday.' Who talks like that?"

"Poets?"

"Desperately lonely, horny stalkers?" She laughed. "I'm gonna go. I'll let you know what I decide to do about Thursday. Say hi to David for me."

"Will do. Love you, honey."

"Love you, too."

And with that, she was back to her dilemma. Well, two dilemmas.

First, there was Walsh. Did she really want to see him? No. She was still upset about their fight, for one. And there was this weird nagging feeling she had that she couldn't quite place. It was a feeling she got every time she was irritated with Walsh, and it was eerily similar to the feeling she got when she couldn't remember a particular word.

But as she'd said to Mary Margaret, she couldn't just keep avoiding him. He _was_ her boyfriend; they'd been dating for almost eight months. She had to see him at some point; she might as well get it over with.

Boy. This wasn't a healthy way to think about her relationship. But at least she wasn't as wrapped up and obliviously in love like she'd been with Neal.

She quickly texted him. _Rearranged my schedule for Thursday. Dinner at 7 at Fin's?_

He replied nearly immediately. _How about 7:30 at Tango?_

Ugh. No. That was a restaurant in his suburb, and the suggestion carried the implicit understanding that she would stay the night. _I'd rather stay near my neck of the woods. Have to get to work early on Friday._

_Okay, I'll see you at Fin's at 7._ At least he didn't argue.

One problem solved, she now faced the second: the note.

How could she reply? She had a boyfriend; she didn't really want to encourage this other person's attention. And she didn't know who the hell this person even was; what if he (or she) was incredibly unattractive? She didn't think she was that shallow, but she'd feel much differently about this secret admirer if it ended up someone like Hot Guy than she would if, say, it was Elderly Italian Guy downstairs.

She grabbed a sheet of paper from the legal pad she kept on the kitchen counter and she fished through her junk drawer for a pen.

_As good as any Monday could ever be. Like any normal human, I live for the weekend._

She thought about signing it, but if her admirer wasn't using his or her name, then she didn't want to either. Instead, she simply added:

_Isn't this a little bit middle school?_

She left the folded sheet of paper, sans envelope, under her doormat the following morning on her way to work.

* * *

**Like the story? I'd love to hear what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

Returning home Wednesday evening (her day much longer than usual because of her plans Thursday night), she pushed her way out of the elevator (ugh, could American Gladiator and Pretty Boy please move out of the way?), strode down the hall, and spotted a new envelope under her doorstep. Again, the note inside was typed.

_I'm a little disappointed to hear that my first note didn't brighten your Monday, but I suppose that brightening any Monday might be an impossible task, even for someone as charming as I am. As for the maturity of this method of interaction, I assure you that I am, in fact, not in middle school. Certainly, absolutely not in middle school. This is simply an enjoyable way to contact you and let you know of my affections._

_Eagerly awaiting your reply,  
__Your secret admirer_

She snorted. _Certainly, absolutely not in middle school? Charming?_ Well then! She had to admit, she kind of liked the flowery speech, even if she wasn't sure _what_ to think of the attitude behind it.

Her phone buzzed as she walked in the door. "Emma Swan," she said, answering before she could check the caller ID.

"Hey, Em, I was just calling to see if you wanted to grab drinks tonight." It was Victor.

"I only just walked in the door," she said sadly. "Maybe Friday night? Or Saturday?"

"I've got Saturday night off," he said. Thank goodness he was getting more free Saturdays during his last year of residency. "Okay if I call the rest of the group?"

She replied, "Sure, if you want," but she didn't say it quickly enough.

"Is something wrong? Is there something going on that I don't know about?"

"No, nothing," she said, too quickly this time.

"Is it about that secret admirer thing?"

She groaned. "Did Ruby tell everyone?"

"Ruby knows about this? I heard about it from David."

No secrets in this damn group. She sighed. "I just know that if we all go out in a group, it's going to be _the thing_ we all talk about."

"And if it's just us, what _thing_ will _we_ talk about?" he said with a chuckle. "You're not going to want to talk about this secret admirer person. You _never_ want to talk about Walsh. Maybe we need some other people around for conversation."

That was interesting. Victor almost always had something casual going on, and he _loved_ to talk about his sex life with Emma. She didn't mind at all; hearing a guy talk about his sex life was really refreshing, and she enjoyed hearing the point of view of the opposite sex. "What, no news from the Playboy Mansion?" His silence was telling. "Did you meet someone?"

"No," he replied, and she could tell from his voice he was being honest. "I'm just kind of tired, that's all."

"Really? Victor Whale is tired of playing the field?"

"Eh, well, I'm almost done with my residency. A man has to think about the future. But anyway, going back to the reason I called—I'm happy to have it just be the two of us if you really want. But are you going to tell me what's going on with these notes? David was vague."

"It's just a secret admirer," she said, as if such an occurrence was entirely mundane. "I'm sure he'll lose interest soon."

"Or she," Victor said.

"Or she," she acknowledged. "It doesn't really matter, though. I'm with Walsh."

"Does this mysterious admirer know that?"

"I have no idea. Neither of the notes mentioned anything."

"Whoa, _neither_ of the notes? You got another one? What did it say?"

"Come on, man, if I tell you, we won't have anything to talk about on Saturday night?"

"Nice try, Em."

"Okay, fine. The first one was just basically, like … 'Have a nice Monday,' nothing special. The second one was … I don't really know how to describe it. Just like, sorry he—I know, or she—couldn't brighten my Monday, reassurance that he's definitely not in middle school, that he's enjoying sending me notes."

"What's this about middle school?"

"Well, I had commented that I thought the whole secret admirer thing was, you know, _middle school._"

"You left a _reply?"_

Ugh. "Mary Margaret told me I should."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Give me a break here. I'm a doctor; I like solving mysteries."

"Victor, that's a _detective._ A _detective_ solves mysteries."

"You've watched enough _House_ to know that a great deal of my job involves diagnosing mysterious illnesses, so cut it out. I just mean, I want to find out who this person is."

"So you don't think it's Walsh either?"

_"You_ don't think it's Walsh?"

"I don't know _what_ to think. Ruby thinks it's Walsh, and Mary Margaret doesn't."

"Why would it be Walsh exactly?"

"Either he's trying to spice things up, or he's trying to apologize for the fight we had over the weekend."

"Ah. Then I'm with Mary Margaret."

"Really? Why?"

"Do you want me to be honest with you?"

She grimaced. No one _ever_ asked that question unless they were pretty sure the truth wouldn't be much appreciated. But then again, she wanted honesty. And she was really curious now. "Yes, I do."

"I'll admit that I'm basing this on what you've told me and the limited time I've spent around Walsh," he began, "so obviously, if you want to tell me that I'm horribly wrong and don't know what I'm talking about, you know I'll back off."

"Victor, just tell me."

"Okay, okay! I think Walsh treats you like everything's guaranteed. He's not going to apologize for your fight because that's like admitting something needs to be fixed to keep the relationship going."

"What about spicing things up?"

"I don't think so, for the same reason. If you're a sure thing, there's no reason to spice things up."

Emma's first instinct was to tell Victor exactly what he pseudo-predicted she'd say: that he was horribly wrong and that he didn't know what he was talking about. She could feel the anger bubbling up; it was one thing to have Mary Margaret (gently) pass judgment on her relationship, but Victor never had a relationship that lasted longer than a television commercial.

But she didn't have any sort of demonstrable evidence that what he said _wasn't_ true.

"I'm sorry," he said, when she didn't reply. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, it's okay," she said. "I asked for the truth. I'll think about what you said."

"Still on for drinks Saturday night?"

"Definitely. Text me details and I'll see you then."

Hanging up and tossing her phone on the bed, she pulled a Lean Cuisine from the freezer, poked some holes in the plastic, and tossed it into the microwave. It was almost nine; she was too tired to even think about cooking anything. And besides, she knew it was exactly the kind of thing that would annoy Walsh. If he made one more suggestion about healthy meals she could cook quickly and easily on a regular basis ("with just some simple ingredients you already have on hand!"), she might scream. It was one of many reasons Walsh had stopped coming over to her place.

Ugh. She needed to stop thinking about Walsh. She needed to think about something else.

The note from her secret admirer lay on the counter, sticking halfway out of its envelope. She grabbed her legal pad.

_Well, aren't _you_ a weird one. A grown adult who announces their crush through anonymous messages? The only way to make this better would be to ask, "Do you like me?" and have checkboxes for "Yes," "No," and "Maybe."_

_But you're clearly persistent. What should I call you? "Secret admirer?" I need _something_ to call you when I gossip to my friends that I'm the luckiest gal in school._

She slipped it back under the doormat before going to bed; she had to wake up early to get out on time for dinner, and she didn't want to forget to set the message out before she left.

* * *

**Glad to see so many folks are enjoying the story so far! Now that Emma's replying, we're gonna get some more notes ...**

**And hooray, great to see you again, too, Guest Who Thinks I Hate David For Some Reason. *waves happily at your beautiful face***


	4. Chapter 4

At six-fifteen on Thursday, Emma nearly knocked over Hot Guy from down the hall as she rushed into the building. She barely managed to mutter a quick, "Sorry," before hurrying to the elevator. Once inside the elevator, Haughty Blonde and Gym Teacher gave her a bit of a judgmental glare for not being more apologetic. But she was running super late if she was going to shower, change, and get to the restaurant by seven.

She didn't even have time to read the note that was tucked under the doormat, although she had the presence of mind to snatch it and put it on the counter to read later.

She was only a few minutes late to the restaurant; Walsh was sitting on the bench near the hostess' podium, checking his watch. "I'm sorry," she said as soon as she walked in. "Even with everything I shuffled around, today was pretty nuts."

"It's fine," he replied, standing and kissing her cheek. "I wasn't waiting long. I'm guessing you're hungry."

"Starving," she admitted. "Thanks for coming here."

"Well, I do like this restaurant," he said as they were seated. "There isn't sushi this good in my neck of the woods."

It was, she knew, his subtle way of acknowledging that he understood her hesitance to move to the suburbs with him. But she just found it grating. It wasn't as though _sushi_ was the reason she wanted to stay in the city.

Dinner was quiet, which was nothing out of the ordinary. Typically, she enjoyed the fact that they could sit and eat at a restaurant and not need to fill the whole evening with idle chatter. But tonight, that silence felt wrong and uncomfortable. She couldn't quite place why.

As she finished her spicy salmon roll, Walsh smiled at her. "What?" she asked, mouth still partially full.

"I'm just glad we were able to get dinner tonight. I feel like we've both been so busy lately."

"Well, yeah," she acknowledged, finishing her mouthful and taking a sip of water. "I warned you that things tend to get busy in November and December, what with the holidays and all. Aren't the holidays busy for you, too?"

"Yeah, and January. People are either bringing in gifted furniture for exchange or return, or they're ready to spend any cash they got." He took a swig of water and grabbed for the check when the server dropped it off.

"I'll pay," Emma said defensively, reaching for the check presenter. "I picked the restaurant."

"I think you need to accept that you have a boyfriend now," he said with a smile. "Someone to take care of you. You don't have to pay for dinner anymore. Anyway, about your work hours—how long are they going to be this messy?"

"Probably through January as well. A lot of kids have a hard time over the holidays, or foster parents get overwhelmed but wait until the new year to ask for children to be re-placed." She shook her head; the word choice lent itself to misinterpretation. "I don't mean _replaced._ I mean, removed from the home and placed in a new home. But then things calm down in February again." She shrugged. "Things never get … _not_ messy. Just not _as_ messy."

"Isn't there anything in the nine-to-five category you might like? I mean, not all social workers have such erratic schedules. Your friend Tink has a pretty regular one." The check reappeared and he busied himself with tipping math.

There was that weird sense of forgetfulness again, where she couldn't figure out what she'd just been thinking about, but she _knew_ she'd just thought of something. It was like when she'd remember that she was supposed to do something, but for the life of her, she didn't know _what._

"I like what I do," was all she replied, and he just shrugged and smiled at her before standing and offering to help her with her jacket.

Walsh offered to drive her back to her apartment. He'd driven all the way into the city today, instead of driving to the nearest park-and-ride and taking the train the rest of the way. Traffic wasn't so bad after rush hour, so since he knew he'd be in the city late, it made more sense to drive.

But she knew that, even though he'd offered to drive her, he'd complain about how irritating the city's layout was, and how there was no parking on her street. He'd make a comment about how he'd consider driving in daily if he were driving both of them to work.

Or worse, he would actually ask to stay the night. Why did that bother her so much? Didn't she wish he'd _want_ to spend time at her place? Why was she glad that he never did?

Flustered, she turned down Walsh's offer, explaining that she didn't want his commute to be any longer. He didn't seem to realize anything was amiss (and to be honest, she wasn't sure _what_ was amiss), and kissed her goodnight after seeing her safely to her train stop.

She spent the entire train ride home letting her thoughts wander, in an attempt to get back to that moment of clarity so she could get another chance at experiencing it. She wasn't sure why, but that feeling had been sharper than usual, and more difficult to let go of.

When she finally walked into her apartment, she spotted the envelope she'd left on her counter. She'd forgotten about the letter all evening, and she hoped that maybe _that_ was what she couldn't seem to remember, but it didn't trigger the feeling she'd had. Either way, though, she was excited to open it.

_My dear, you should call me whatever you'd like. I'd like to think of myself as a rather dashing rapscallion, but I understand if you think that seems like an odd choice for a nickname. I'd reveal my name to you, but you strike me as the investigative type, and I'd prefer to keep some semblance of anonymity for now._

_I look forward to your next correspondence. I suppose it's all right if my messages don't bring a smile to your face; yours certainly bring a smile to mine._

_Very, very much yours,  
__Your secret admirer (dashing rapscallion, perhaps?)_

Below was written, "Do you like me?" and there were three checkboxes, labeled "Yes," "No," and "Maybe." She laughed out loud before leaving the note on the breakfast bar and heading to bed.

Emma didn't have a chance to leave a reply until she got home from work Friday evening. She'd planned to pen something in the morning before she left for work, but that ended up being a bust. She had to get to work by eight o'clock at the latest (which meant she needed to aim for about thirty minutes earlier), and her exhaustion from shifting her schedule around resulted in her sleeping through her alarm. Even with skipping breakfast, she barely made it to work on time.

Munching on some cereal for dinner (she was too tired to cook again), she grabbed her pad and pen.

_Well, since I'm currently eating Cap'n Crunch, I think I'll call you Captain. How does that sound? Or are you secretly/not-so-secretly devastated that I'm not nicknaming you "dashing rapscallion?" Be honest. I'll know if you're lying._

_ Perhaps this is an unbelievably awkward question, but it's probably more awkward for you, so: you never address me properly. Do you even _know_ my name? So called "admirer?"_

She drew in the little boxes and checked off "Maybe."

Her note was still there Saturday morning, and then in the afternoon when she came home from running some mundane errands. She was surprised at how disappointed she was, but remembered that her admirer might be waiting to make sure he (or she) wouldn't get caught. With that in mind, she headed down to the fitness center, staying much longer than she normally did, to give him or her the chance to pick up her note, read it, and leave a reply. She hoped that her admirer appreciated the lengths she was going through to preserve his or her anonymity; Leering Red Hat Guy was in the fitness center, and boy, was he leering a _lot_.

She lost track of time as she plodded along on the elliptical, only realizing the time when she got a text from Victor saying she should meet him at the Publick House by six-thirty if they wanted to manage to get a table before eight o'clock. It was well past five; she was already going to be running late. As she rushed back to her apartment, she spotted the envelope. She read it while sitting at the breakfast bar of her tiny kitchen, dripping sweat on the counter. Her heart jumped at the length of the note.

_I happily accept this new nickname, and I shall insist upon being addressed as such. If you don't follow through, I shall have to correct you._

_ I shall tell the truth, as I always do: as I am a tenant in this building, I've discerned your surname from your mailbox. I'm quite perceptive. You, however, seem rather unimpressed and—dare I say it?—a tad offended at the _idea_ that I might not know your name. Granted, I don't, as I see no benefits to be had by stalking you. But since you seem so aggrieved at the mere _notion_ that I should fancy a woman whose name I do not know, I shall have to give you a nickname of my own. How about Princess? Like, Swan Princess? Get it? As you can see, I'm incredibly clever._

_ I'm going to pretend that I'm not judging you heavily for your eating habits. Have you tried cereal that doesn't tear your mouth to shreds? Or does the metallic taste of blood make the cereal more palatable?_

_ Finally, you had an awkward question for me, which I have happily answered for you. So now, if you could possibly _answer_ an awkward question: Are you, for lack of a better term, available? Is this poor captain pining after a woman whose heart belongs to another? I'd like to believe that you are indeed unattached, seeing as you've been replying to my letters thus far. And I am a man who is not often wrong. But then again, your "Maybe" in your earlier missive was difficult to analyze. So, if you are indeed spoken for, then I hope Your Highness will please accept my humblest apologies, and forgive me these transgressions._

_Eagerly/nervously anticipating your response,  
__Your Captain_

Well, this was quite direct. And sassy—_Princess?_ What was she supposed to say? That yeah, she had a boyfriend, but that she'd been looking forward to these letters more than she'd been looking forward to her date with said boyfriend? That she was _technically_ not available? It didn't seem like such a good thing that she was thinking that having a boyfriend was suddenly a _technicality._

She wasn't even a little surprised that he knew her last name. He was leaving notes at her apartment door, which meant he knew her apartment number. It wasn't hard to check the mailboxes downstairs, where "Swan" was written on box 311.

It wasn't necessarily a relief that he was a tenant, though. True, that meant that it could be Hot Guy, or Pretty Boy, or Sexy Single Dad. Maybe even Gym Teacher (although she was pretty sure he wasn't single). She might even be cool with Eyebrows, or Elderly Italian Guy's Moderately Attractive Son. But again, there was always Leering Red Hat Guy, any one of the Short Brothers (probably not the one who never spoke), or Snob With Sideburns.

A drop of sweat fell onto the paper; she needed to shower.

She hopped out of the shower to find a text from Walsh. _Hey, babe. I don't think I'm up for driving all the way to Maine for Thanksgiving. We should just do our own thing here, at my place. I promise, I'll make the turkey!_

Very suddenly, that feeling that she couldn't seem to grasp—the word she couldn't remember, the task she couldn't quite recall—become incredibly clear. She knew exactly what she was feeling, and she knew exactly what to do about it.

She immediately called Victor. "Hey, I have to cancel tonight. Is that okay?"

"Uh, yeah," he replied. "I mean, it's okay if you need to cancel, but are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "There's just something I've got to do tonight. I've been putting it off for a while, and I can't put it off any longer. Sorry."

"No worries. Talk to you later?"

"Talk to you later." And as soon as the call ended, she dialed Walsh's number.

A few hours later, she pulled a carton of ice cream from the freezer, put on her favorite Disney movie, and grabbed the legal pad. It only took a few minutes before she was done, and she felt a renewed sense of purpose as she pushed it halfway under her doormat before crawling into bed with her Rocky Road to watch _Beauty and the Beast._

_Well, Captain, since you seem to suffer from the delusion that I'm royalty, I'm just going to play along and take advantage of your mistake. As a princess, I expect a lot of groveling, just so you know. It's just how I roll._

_ My first royal act will be to grant you a pardon for your incredibly rude comment concerning what everyone knows is a delicious part of a balanced breakfast (or dinner). Can you seriously top Cap'n Crunch? Do you think you're more of a Cap'n than he is?_

_ As for your awkward question: I am, for lack of a better term, available. Your move._

* * *

**So, we're only four chapters in, but I know a lot of you were waiting for this point in the plot! I hope you enjoyed it!**

**And as always, I'd love to know what you think of the story! Thanks to everyone who's given me feedback so far! 3**


	5. Chapter 5

Sunday morning, Emma awoke to find a series of texts on her phone. Seven were from Walsh, and the rest were from Mary Margaret, Ruby, Victor, and Tink. She also had three voicemails, all from Walsh, who was the only person in her life who seemed to constantly forget that she hated listening to voicemails. She ignored his messages, willing her eyes to just not see what he'd written, and instead read the texts from her sister and friends.

The earliest was from Victor, who had clearly texted her before his shift at the hospital. _Hey, just checking in to make sure you're all right. I know you said you were fine, but I just want to make sure nothing's wrong._

The next most recent text was from Mary Margaret. _I've got two voicemails from Walsh, so I figured I'd ask you what was going on before I listened. Are you awake?_ And then, thirty minutes later, _Holy shit, just listened. Call me when you wake up, hon._

And then, twenty minutes after that, a text from Ruby: _Mary Margaret told me what happened. Do you want me to come over?_

And finally, from Tink: _Lady, what the hell is going on?_

While she didn't miss the days when she was a friendless orphan in foster care, having friends and family did come with a price: nothing could happen in her life and stay private. She quickly fired off texts to Mary Margaret, Victor, Ruby, and Tink, saying that she was fine, to ignore Walsh if he tried to contact them more, and that she'd see them on Tuesday night for Ruby's birthday dinner.

She felt a weird combination of exhausted and energized. Exhaustion was easy to explain: her throat was raw from her three hour phone conversation with Walsh; her legs were tight from forgetting to stretch after her workout; and her stomach was queasy from skipping dinner and eating ice cream.

But she also felt lighter somehow. She had nothing on the slate for Sunday, although she knew the best solution to the stiffness in her limbs would be to do a gentle workout and stretch generously afterwards. She'd initially planned on sleeping off a hangover from her evening out with Victor and then watching reality TV while eating take-out (her go-to dinner plans for Sundays, before her typical Monday grocery shopping), but obviously, those were plans that were easily changed.

Instead, she found herself in the laundry room in time to snag two washing machines at the same time (much to Snob With Sideburns' chagrin, but she'd left him a washer to use), and then back in her apartment preparing dinner in her rarely-used slow cooker, a gift from Leo and Regina when she'd started graduate school. While her clothes were in the dryer, she cleaned her apartment, which had gotten even more messy than usual during her stressful week. She even put her clothes away, something she was often too lazy to do, and took great pleasure in reorganizing her dresser drawers.

It was actually a struggle to keep her workout low-impact, sticking to just twenty minutes and low resistance on the elliptical and spending the rest of her time stretching. It didn't help that American Gladiator was there; Emma always felt competitive when the extremely athletic woman was also in the fitness center. But when she got back to her apartment, she was glad she'd kept her workout short; there was a new note under her doormat. She felt an urge to read it immediately, but she also felt like she was in some sort of _zone_, getting her life on track within a single short day. So instead, she showered, dried her hair, and even got dressed in something other than pajamas before settling in at the breakfast bar to read.

_My dearest, most regal Princess,_

_ Dropping some of the attitude for a moment, if you'll allow it, I'm honestly relieved that you're actually available. Given your incredible beauty, I'd assumed that it would be impossible for you to be single._

_ But I must insist that you are wrong about the Cap'n; I am certainly more of a Cap'n than he is. Does he have a boat? I am quite certain one must have a boat to be a Captain. I have a boat, and he does not, ergo: I am more Cap'n than Cap'n Crunch._

_ Since your divinely royal taste buds have been mistreated for so long, I must insist that you experience Sunday Brunch at Stephanie's on Newbury. As your humble Captain/admirer/dashing rapscallion, I have already made the necessary arrangements for you to dine there on your next free Sunday; when they ask for a name, just tell them you're the Swan Princess. I also must insist that you bring along a friend, someone who deserves a delicious meal and the pleasure of your company, so that word may spread among your circle that your Captain takes secret admiring quite seriously. And that he takes his breakfast seriously—this is very important, your Highness. I recommend the cinnamon oatmeal brûlée._

_Truly yours,_

_ Your Captain/rapscallion (I do think that's a rather inspired nickname)_

Before she could even begin to think of her reply, her slow cooker beeped. Still in "life on track" mode, she immediately spooned out a serving into a freshly washed and dried bowl and poured the rest into a leftover container for her to bring to work. But as she ate, she worked on her reply.

_Captain— _

_ You're really upping the stakes now. What if I really _do_ take you up on that offer? Can I order anything I'd like? What about my friend of choice? What if things end up getting a bit romantic between my friend and me while we're enjoying such a scrumptious brunch? Wouldn't that be a conflict of interest for you? Look, I'm just trying to point out some rookie secret admirer mistakes you're making._

_ Do you really have a boat? You need to be careful. What if I fall head over heels for you and you lied about having a boat? That would be a serious problem._

Before she could slip the note under the doormat, her phone rang. Fortunately, it wasn't Walsh. "Hey, Tink." She winced. She hadn't spoken all day and forgot how hoarse she'd be after last night's conversation with Walsh.

"What happened, Emma?"

"What do you mean, what happened?"

She could see Tink's stern look in her mind's eye. "Your sister called me."

"Okay. What did Mary Margaret tell you happened?"

"That you and Walsh broke up. Is that true?"

She sighed and moved her now empty bowl to the sink. "Yeah, it's true."

"Don't you want to talk about it?"

"Uh, not really."

"Emma, you _have_ to talk about it."

"Tink, you're not my therapist, you know." Tink _was_ a therapist; she and Emma had met in graduate school. But Emma had always intended to work in the foster care system, while her friend was always interested in counseling. "Look, I've complained enough about Walsh to all of you guys that you _know_ all the things that were wrong. I thought you'd all be celebrating."

"But why now?" She gasped. "Emma, is this about your secret admirer?"

"Who told you about _that?" _But at this point, she was hardly surprised that _everyone_ in their circle of friends now knew about Captain Rapscallion or whatever he wanted to be called.

"Victor did."

"You guys are unbelievable."

"Well? I'm a little hurt that you haven't told me about this yourself."

"There's nothing to tell. Some guy likes me and he's been leaving me notes. I didn't leave Walsh for this mystery guy."

"So _you_ dumped him?"

"Yeah."

"How'd he take it?"

"Well, it took three hours to break up with him, which is why I sound like a frog."

"Oh god, that sounds awful."

"It was. There are only so many ways you can explain things, you know?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"And he kept demanding examples of everything, and then when I gave him examples, he'd explain—kind of … meanly, if that's a word?—how those examples didn't count, or that I was wrong."

"There's no 'wrong' when one person wants to end a relationship."

"Well,_ you_ can be the one to tell him that. I'm going with a clean break."

"Don't you need to get your stuff from his place? Or give him back his stuff?" Tink paused and then groaned in realization. "Except neither of you left stuff at each other's places."

"Right on the money." She sighed. "Although he left a bunch of voicemails for Mary Margaret. If he keeps doing that, I'll probably need to talk to him."

"Yeah, that would be the right thing to do. So you're okay? You don't need me to come over?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll see you Tuesday for Ruby's birthday."

"Wait, wait, wait. I want to know more about this secret admirer!"

"There's not much to tell! He leaves me notes under my doormat."

"Victor says you've been _replying._ Is that true?"

"Yeah."

"Is that really safe?"

"He's just another tenant in the building. It's not like he's breaking into the complex or anything."

"I … I'm just surprised, that's all."

"That I have a secret admirer?" Emma was more amused than offended.

"No. That you aren't disgusted by it. In all the time I've known you, you've practically been aromantic. You just ended an eight month relationship, and the most romantic you ever got about Walsh was referring to him as your boyfriend. I just find it a little strange that you're not irritated or skeeved out by a secret admirer."

"Well …" But she wasn't sure what to say. She didn't know _why_ her secret admirer didn't creep her out. She wouldn't even call it romantic; if anything, it was _extremely_ middle school, just endless teasing left under her doormat. She just knew, in her gut, that it just didn't bother her. She kind of enjoyed it. Not just receiving the notes, but sending them as well.

"I don't know," she finally admitted. "But dating Walsh was way more annoying than some secret admirer."

"Walsh did set the bar pretty low," Tink said, chuckling a little. "So this secret admirer, he's a tenant?"

"Yep."

"I hope it's Hot Guy."

"Like I'd be _that_ lucky. It's probably Snob With Sideburns."

"What about Eyebrows?"

"Eh, maybe."

"Leery Red Hat Guy?"

"Oh dear lord, I hope not."

"So what are these notes even like? Are we talking poetry here?"

"Honestly, he seems to be blowing a lot of hot air. He says he owns a boat, _and_ he said that I can get brunch at some place on Newbury Street on his dime."

"Whoa, whoa. Brunch at _Stephanie's_ on Newbury?"

"Yeah …"

"Just you?"

"No, I can bring a friend."

"You are taking _me._ Emma, come _on._ We made it through social work school. We've earned this. _I've_ earned this."

She laughed. "Okay. You and me next Sunday? Ten?"

"Yes! Thank you! Oh, you are _so_ not going to regret taking me."

"Well, keep it under your hat for now, okay? Don't talk about it at Ruby's birthday party."

"All right, I won't. I'll see you Tuesday?"

"See you then, Tink."

* * *

**Thanks for the feedback and reviews! I love hearing from you amazing folks!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Content note: Serious acute illness.**

* * *

The correspondence became quite regular. Emma would leave a note in the morning, and in the evening, there would be a reply.

_My most royal and regal of princesses,_

_ Of fucking course I actually own a boat. I am insulted that you would think I would lie about such a serious matter. You will have to excuse me; I must take a moment to regain my composure._

_ As for your upcoming brunch plans, I am incredibly confident that your experience will be so incredible and pleasurable—in a culinary manner, of course—that you will be immediately and immeasurably grateful that I, ever your humble servant and well-known Secret Admirer of the Princess, provided you with such a magical affair. Whichever lucky friend you bring along will almost certainly attempt to compete with you for my affections, so I shall assure you that my heart, of course, belongs solely to you._

_ I'm sorry, but again, of _fucking course_ I own a boat, how could you even—_

_Forever yours, snide boat-related remarks aside,  
__Your Captain_

_Captain—_

_ Calm the fuck down, please, by order of the Princess. Do you seriously have a boat? Are you telling me that my completely random nickname for you, chosen on the basis of the cereal I was eating for dinner (like an adult), was actually accurate?_

_ Regarding brunch, you might not want to hype it up too much. By the time you get this note, it'll probably be Tuesday, and brunch isn't happening until Sunday. If you oversell this place, and I can't find it within the goodness of my heart to lie to you, I'm terribly worried about what will happen to your poor, poor ego._

_Your Highness,_

_ I really, truly, absolutely do own a boat, and to be quite frank, I am a little suspicious that you actually know who I am, and that you're pretending to have terrible taste in breakfast cereal in order to throw me off._

_ I can assure you that there is no possible way to overhype this brunch for you. In fact, I must insist that you order the French toast, the cinnamon oatmeal brûlée I already told you about, and a Bloody Mary with Absolut vodka, Stephanie's famous mix, and either a celery stick (if you're a traditional, stick-in-the-mud sort of princess) or a red hot chili pepper (if you're an adventurous, courageous, pirate wench type of princess). My dearest Swan Princess, I don't mean to alarm you, but if you order these exact items, you might find yourself begging me to reveal my identity to you so that you can properly thank me._

_Your most humble servant obviously,  
__Your Captain_

_Captain—_

_ Please find attached one (1) broken down Cap'n Crunch box and one (1) printed selfie showing me eating Capn Crunch_

_ I figure you already know who I am and I look like. So a photo of me eating cereal isn't any sort of surprise or whatever._

_ Seriously. You've got my attention, Captain. Why stay secret? Your all powerful royal demands to know._

_PS I'm not gonna lie to you because I respect you so I am pretty fucking trashed right now_

_Princess— _

_ I offer my most humble apologies for impugning your reputation by insinuating that you were a stick in the mud. Clearly, you are adventurous, free-spirited, unpredictable, and quite serious about her weaponized breakfast cereal._

_ I am intensely curious about the circumstances surrounding Her Highness' drunken escapades. Perhaps she might indulge me by describing what sort of wild events went on that led to her getting extraordinarily tanked on a week night._

_ As for the continued secrecy? Perhaps I am extremely good-looking and wish to ensure your interest on the merits of my razor sharp wit. Or perhaps I am quite homely and, again, wish to ensure your interest on the merits of my razor sharp wit. I could go on, but I'm sure you are currently far too hungover to appreciate said razor sharp wit._

_Best wishes for a speedy recovery,  
__Captain (Razor Sharp Wit)_

_Captain— _

_ I was out with friends last night. The birthday girl, my best friend from college, owns a restaurant, so she closed it down early so we could hang out. I got a few texts from her this morning; apparently, five of us managed to drain several bottles of liquor. According to my sister, who was the designated driver, I started threatening to bite people who tried to take the bottle of Maker's away from me._

_ Still interested?_

_ I may have been drunk last night, but I stand by my earlier question: why keep things a secret? I'm single. I assume you're single. I've told you I'm interested. So?_

Emma frowned when her cell phone rang with Regina's ringtone; her mother usually knew better than to call her during work. She was in the middle of going through some files for a potential family for a somewhat difficult child. She wouldn't get in trouble for answering, but even so, this poor kid had been having so much trouble, and she really didn't want to get distracted. She wondered if Mary Margaret had told their parents about Walsh; she hadn't done it yet and wasn't looking forward to it. She let it go to voicemail.

About a minute later, though, her phone's tinny imitation of Ingrid Michaelson's voice rang out. Why was Mary Margaret calling her? School would have been over for the day a few minutes ago, but Mary Margaret also rarely called if she knew Emma was at work.

Something was wrong. "Mary Margaret, is everything okay?" she asked as she answered, hoping that she was just overreacting.

"Dad had a heart attack."

Oh no.

Suddenly she couldn't really see her computer monitor or feel her desk chair beneath her. "Is he—"

"They're on their way to the hospital right now," her sister replied quickly. "I'm going to swing by and pick up David. I know you might not be able to just—"

"Get him first," Emma interrupted. "I just have to tell Ingrid. I'll call if there's a problem."

"Okay. We can stop by your place if you need to get anything."

"Yeah, okay." She could barely think. "If we have time."

"Yeah. I'll call you when we're outside."

Her hands were shaking as she ended the call and put down her phone.

An hour later, David was weaving in and out of traffic on the highway as they drove through the North Shore of Massachusetts on their way to Maine. Mary Margaret, who always sat in front, was in the backseat with Emma, who kept anxiously reaching out to give her sister's arm a reassuring squeeze. When they were halfway there, Regina finally called with an update; Leo was doing okay, but he was very out of it, and would definitely be in the hospital for about a week or so. She was matter-of-fact, but even over the crackle of speakerphone, Emma could tell her mother's voice was shaking.

By the time they got to the hospital, Leo was awake and alert, and quite grumpy that he wasn't allowed to get up. To everyone's relief, his doctors didn't recommend any sort of surgical intervention, but they needed to monitor him. When they approached the hospital room, they could hear him arguing with Regina. "You didn't need to call the kids, Regina. They have _lives!_ They can't come up here every time any tiny little thing goes wrong."

"This is a tiny little thing?" Regina replied, irritably. "So I suppose I should have just left you on the floor then? I'll be sure to do that the next time."

"Let's avoid having a next time," Emma said as they walked in. She was quickly enveloped by a hug from Regina, while Mary Margaret awkwardly tried to hug Leo as tightly as possible as he lay in his hospital bed.

"Dad, Regina didn't tell us to come," Mary Margaret said, scolding him. _"We_ made that decision. Of _course_ we had to come. How are you feeling?"

"How are _you_ feeling?" Emma asked Regina quietly after her mother finished hugging David.

Regina let out a shaky sigh. "Better. Relieved. Still scared."

"What happened?"

"I came home from work early, thank goodness, and he'd been working in the office." Regina was an instructor at a nearby community college, and Leo was retired and working on a novel.

"We'll stay with you," Emma reassured her. She squeezed her mother's arm before going to Leo's bedside and giving him as big a hug as she could.

Regina wanted to stay at the hospital, but there was nowhere in the room to sleep besides an uncomfortable chair; Mary Margaret insisted on driving her home in the car she'd driven to the hospital, and David followed with Emma.

It was strange being back at the old house, especially because not everything was the same as it had been when they'd left for college ten years ago. With two girls grown up and one of them married, Leo and Regina had finally decided to renovate and expand the house. The bedroom Mary Margaret had grown up in, and that she'd shared with Emma, now had a double bed instead of two twins, and there was a new guest bedroom on the first floor overlooking Regina's garden. Gone were the days when Mary Margaret and Emma would stay up late in their old beds, talking about sex, while David slept downstairs on the sleeper sofa.

There was also a second office for Leo, so that he and Regina no longer had to share one, and a TV room as well. It was strange to be able to lounge around on a huge, deep sectional in the dark while watching a widescreen TV; it was certainly fun and luxurious, but Emma always felt nostalgic for the days when the four of them would crowd onto the old squishy couch in the living room (now gone, replaced by a much less questionable-looking one from Pottery Barn) and watch movies on the bulky CRT.

By Friday morning, most of the adrenaline and shock had worn off, and everyone was as cranky as Leo had been the day before. Regina was always happy to see the three of them, but having the three kids around at the same time that she was beyond stressed meant that her temper was shorter than usual. A dish left in the sink (Emma), the car parked "incorrectly" (Mary Margaret), and someone finishing the milk without leaving a note (David) all left Regina irritated to the point of tears. It was clear that, while Regina certainly needed someone around, having all three of them in the house was much, much too much. And with Leo almost entirely out of the woods, but still in the hospital, everyone was much less worried and (while Emma felt like the worst person ever for feeling this way) bored.

Unable to sleep that night, Emma wandered downstairs from her old room to the TV room. To her surprise, the TV was already on, the volume turned down low. It was _SportsCenter_, which meant that even before she plopped down on the couch, she knew David was the one watching.

"Hey," she said as she sat next to him. "Couldn't sleep either?"

"Nope," he said. "This kind of stress makes me wired. How are you holding up?"

"Better than Mary Margaret," she admitted. "But that's no surprise. She's always been a total daddy's girl—not in a bad way, you know," she added quickly.

But David understood; it wasn't exactly a secret. Leo had always doted on Mary Margaret, his only child, and neither one of them had ever completely gotten over the death of Mary Margaret's mother. Even though Mary Margaret had always liked Regina, and loved her very much as a stepmother, Regina was still her _step_mother, and Mary Margaret was already twelve when Leo and Regina married.

While Mary Margaret had always been much closer to Leo than to Regina, the opposite had been true for Emma. And that meant that Emma understood her mother a little better than Mary Margaret did. "We can't stay here much longer," she said to her brother-in-law. "Regina's getting frazzled trying to manage Leo and all three of us."

"I agree," David replied. "Maybe you and I can head home tomorrow. Mary Margaret is still really upset—she wants to stay and take care of Leo. I was thinking, we can drive back, and then I'll come back up next weekend and bring her home."

"That's a good idea. And as much as I feel like an asshole leaving my parents right now, there's no point in staying much longer."

"You're not an asshole," he reassured her. "This isn't an easy situation, with all of us down in Boston and your parents up here. If they were local—or if we were—then we could still be around to help out and take care of them, but we could just go home at the end of the night. This isn't about you being a bad daughter; it's just about all of us needing our space as adults."

"I hope Leo and Regina see it that way—and Mary Margaret."

But they did. Regina _did_ insist on them having dinner together before David and Emma left, and the last visit to the hospital ended up taking much longer than expected. Emma found it much harder to leave her father than she'd expected; she and David weren't on the road home until nearly eight o'clock at night.

David dropped her off at her complex around midnight, and she nearly tripped on her way into her apartment. Slightly dizzy from being overtired and sitting in a car for four hours, she wasn't quite sure why until she knelt down; there were two envelopes shoved under the doormat instead of just one.

The Captain.

She hadn't entirely forgotten about him. There'd been a note when she'd stopped by her apartment on Thursday to grab clothes and toiletries, but she had just thrown it on the counter without reading it, and then promptly pushed it out of her mind. Yesterday, when it had become clear that Leo would be fine, and she'd allowed herself to think about updating her boss, and she'd texted Victor, Ruby, and Tink. It was then that she'd thought about the Captain, and how she couldn't contact him to explain her absence. But she was still surprised to see that he hadn't just waited for her to respond.

She'd have to read them tomorrow, though; she was already falling asleep on her feet.

Tink called her the next morning. "Hey, did you guys make it home okay?"

"Yeah," she replied groggily. "We got in pretty late. I know he's fine, but it was so hard to leave him there."

"I can only imagine," her friend replied sympathetically. "Do you need anything? Groceries?"

"No, I'm okay. I have to go grocery shopping tomorrow, but that's normal."

"Do you want company?"

"Maybe. Not here, though." The apartment wasn't a mess, given that she'd gone on a cleaning spree the previous weekend, but she'd gotten sloppy during the week.

"Do you want to postpone brunch till next weekend?" Tink asked.

"Shit, I'd totally forgotten! Is it too late to go today?"

"Nah, they've only just opened. We might have to wait a little for a table, but that's fine. I can be there in about a half hour; that work for you?"

"Yeah, see you then."

But a quick check of Maps informed her that it was going to take that long to get there. She pulled her greasy hair into a ponytail, pulled on the same jeans and T-shirt she'd worn the day before, and ran out the door. Of course, she'd have the luck to bump into Hot Guy as he got off the elevator; the man never seemed to cross paths with her when she looked remotely presentable.

Fortunately the train seemed to cooperate; she was only five minutes late to meet Tink, and as soon as she put her name in as Swan Princess, they were immediately seated.

"Shit," Emma said quietly.

"What? What's wrong?" Tink asked.

"What's wrong is that this place is a swanky, Newbury Street _institution_. Meanwhile, my hair is gross, I don't even have tinted moisturizer on, and my clothes are dirty."

Tink shrugged. "Well, you've got an excuse. You've been in Maine for the past three days after your dad had a heart attack. Treat yourself, honey."

She did, although she opted out of the Bloody Mary. But as instructed, she ordered the French toast; she split the oatmeal with Tink.

"Oh my god, Emma."

"I know."

The Captain had not oversold the food at all.

When she returned to her apartment, there was no new envelope, but that made sense. The Captain left her notes in the late afternoon or evening; if he did see that she'd arrived home, he was probably waiting for her to reply. Which she fully intended to, after she took a much-needed shower and sorted her dirty laundry from her impromptu trip to Maine. The envelope from Thursday was blank, as was one of the two she'd picked up last night, but the last one had a little "2" handwritten in black ink in the corner. She began with the one from Thursday.

_Your Royal Highness,_

_ I must say, it's very, very flattering that you're suddenly so impatient to meet. Now, if you must know, I'm an old, romantic soul. I want a woman to be properly, thoroughly romanced. I'm not a bad looking fellow, I assure you, and I'm sure if you and I were to meet and see each other socially in the fashion to which you are accustomed, you would find the experience quite satisfactory._

_ But you are clearly an exceptional woman, my Princess. You must be courted expertly, and I am, I assure you, just the right person to do that. In my hands, I give you my word as a gentleman, you will be perfectly and utterly pleased._

_ Still sure you want to call all this foreplay off early?_

_Your Captain_

Without any explicit mention of sex, he managed to make their fun little note-swapping activity sound unbelievably dirty. And it was kind of _hot_.

What was happening? She was turned on by a _note_ from a guy she'd never actually met. Wow. She quickly tore into the next letter, wondering how much dirtier it could possibly be.

_Princess,_

_ I must admit that I am a little disappointed at your lack of reply. I'm usually quite understanding when a woman isn't quite able to handle the sort of attentions I can provide, but you are clearly not an ordinary woman. I'm happy to revert back to our earlier playful banter if you'd be more comfortable, but you'll have to let me know._

_ All teasing aside, I do hope that if I have indeed crossed a boundary, that you will inform me of my misstep. And if I haven't? Then I very, very much look forward to your response._

_Your Captain_

Hm. She opened the last one.

_Swan,_

_ Okay, I _really_ am sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Clearly, I misread your interest, and I apologize. I really do hope that you'll give me another chance, but I completely understand if you don't._

_ Your Captain_

_P.S. I'm embarrassed enough that I'd really rather prefer to hide behind my pseudonym. I hope you understand._

It was weird, reading a note without innuendo or florid speech. But it was also fascinating—that was _him_, really him, without any sort of fancy writing. It was a glimpse of the person she'd been talking to, another angle. It was refreshing.

She grabbed her legal pad, which had almost permanently moved to the breakfast bar, and started writing.

_My Captain,_

_ You definitely have not crossed a line. Thanks for apologizing and offering to leave me alone, but you did nothing wrong and you don't need to leave me alone._

_ I came home Thursday night really briefly, so I grabbed your note but didn't read it. I only got home super late last night, so I'm just getting to everything now._

_ Honestly, I really need to thank you. I was gone because my dad had a heart attack on Thursday, and I had to go home. He's fine—like, really, actually fine, but now I'm home and really needed a return to normalcy. This morning, one of my friends and I went to Stephanie's, and you were absolutely 100% correct. There was no way you could have overhyped that food. The oatmeal will probably haunt my dreams. I didn't get the Bloody Mary, though. I hope that's okay._

_ I'll be straight with you, Captain. I did kind of like seeing a note from you without all the extra-fancy writing. But that note you left that you thought upset me was kind of hot, and I liked that, too. Hope that doesn't upset _you.

_Thanks again for brunch. Hope you haven't given up on me yet._

That evening, as she trudged back to her apartment, carrying still-full laundry basket (naturally, there had been no free machines), she found a new note under the doormat. She felt an unexpected rush of relief.

_My Princess,_

_ I can't even begin to describe how relieved I am, or how ridiculous I feel. I'm so sorry about your father, and I'm glad to hear he's okay. You were home trying to take care of your family, and I was here getting all put out that I had to wait a few days for a note and taking it way too personally. I'm really sorry. I'm glad you liked brunch; that's seriously one of my favorite restaurants, and I can't ever resist recommending it to people._

_ Okay, with that out of the way— _

_ I really should apologize to you, not for bothering you, but for even suggesting that I _stop_ bothering you. And when I say "bothering" you, I, of course, mean leaving you feeling flustered and grinning, with your breathing shallow and your pupils dilated. I've only admired you from afar, but you'd have great difficulty convincing me that you aren't a vision when you're aroused._

_ How'd I do, love?_

_Welcome home,  
__Your Captain_

It was very difficult to refrain from putting her reply out immediately, but she convinced herself to wait by remembering that he probably wasn't expecting her reply until the morning. But it was tempting to give _him_ something to get hot and bothered about so that she wouldn't be the only one going to bed feeling aroused and unsatisfied.

* * *

**I know people have been enjoying guessing which tenant is Killian! I can promise you that you'll find out before Emma does. When the story is over, I'll post a list of which tenant is which character as well. It was fun to come up with nicknames!**


	7. Chapter 7

That had been a turning point in their relationship, if it could even be called that. The Captain still would sometimes write in that weird, overly flowery way he did at the start, but more often, he stuck with the more casual, relaxed style that Emma could tell was his normal way of writing.

The notes also increased in frequency, as much as they possibly could. Emma started to leave a reply as soon as she got home and read his latest note, and she often had another envelope waiting for her before she went to bed.

Occasionally—and only with permission—the notes were a little steamy. It was never anything too explicit; the Captain was careful not to veer into "creepy" territory, and Emma was reluctant to provide someone she'd never met with erotica. But there were definitely more than a few nights where she went to bed, pretending that it hadn't been weeks since she'd gotten laid (she and Walsh hadn't slept together in a while before they'd broken up), and late one night, she ended up turning her apartment upside down to find batteries for her vibrator.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, she made sure to let him know.

_O Captain my Captain,_

_ I'm heading home Wednesday night for Thanksgiving. I should be back by Sunday night at the latest. We'll see, though; my brother-in-law has been hinting that he wants to leave early to visit his mom, in which case I might be back by Friday. Are you sticking around for Thanksgiving, or traveling?_

_ This is awkward, but I feel weird not talking to you for a few days. Seriously, man, look what you're doing to me._

_ Swan_

On Tuesday night, Emma pushed her way into Forum, which was super crowded, and managed to catch Mary Margaret waving her arm frantically to get her attention. "Hey, sorry I'm late!"

"Why _are_ you late?" Tink asked with curiosity as she slid into the booth.

"You ask like you've never taken public transit in this damn city," David said.

"I know why she's late," Ruby said, smirking.

"Because of the T?" Victor said, repeating David's suggestion.

"Secret admirer guy," Mary Margaret said before taking a sip of her drink before giving Ruby a high five.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Sorry to disappoint everyone, but the T was a mess." Fortunately, the server came by to take her drink order, and the questioning stopped.

The train had been a mess, filled with people traveling home for Thanksgiving (many of whom had luggage that was twice the size of a typical human). But Ruby and Mary Margaret were right: Emma had been late because she'd been busy trying to take an appropriately silly selfie to print and attach to the note she'd just left under her doormat.

It had been almost a month since they'd last been out as a group, for Ruby's birthday, and most of the evening was spent catching up on what had been going on in each person's life.

"There's a new counselor at the hospital who insists on calling me my legal name," Tink said. "It's getting irritating. He says it's because everyone uses my legal name around clients and he doesn't want to slip up, but I think he's just being a judgmental ass. I don't think any of his clients really like him, though, so I doubt he'll be around long." Tink's legal name was Rose Bell, but her first week of college, she'd gotten faced and demanded that everyone call her Tinker Bell instead. The nickname had stuck, and by the time she met Emma in grad school, the only people who called her Rose were her parents, her patients, and incredibly stuffy professors.

"Well, nothing's really new for me," Victor said. "The hospital wants me to stay on once I've finished my residency, but to be honest, I'm sort of done with the hours. I'm looking into some of the local private practices. I don't want to turn my back on teaching, but I'm jealous of the rest of you sometimes."

"That dog, who we were calling the Tramp, finally got adopted," David said. He worked for the local SPCA hospital and adoption center. "I'm really gonna miss him, but he's going to a pretty good home. They already have one dog and a kid, but I think it'll work out."

"Diner's doing just fine," Ruby said with a grin. "I'm working on making the place a little more, like, intentionally retro. Oh! And I'm almost done applying for permits to expand the space! Brunch is so popular with all the college kids that we've got a line out the door every Saturday and Sunday."

"I'm thinking of trying a new holiday project with my kids this year, after Thanksgiving," Mary Margaret said. "I'm thinking maybe something focusing on specific winter holiday traditions, and having them ask their parents about family origins of those traditions. But I need to figure out how to make it appropriate for fourth graders. It's such a pain when they're too old for all their homework to be fun, parent-involved stuff, but not old enough for me to just ignore seasonal holidays."

Finally, all eyes turned to Emma. "No," she said, her voice full of warning.

"Oh, come _on!"_ Victor said, a little drunkenly.

"Emma, you haven't told us anything since you and Tink went to brunch," Mary Margaret reminded her.

"We're _dying_, okay?" Ruby added dramatically.

"Guys, leave her alone," Tink said defensively.

"You're just saying that because she took you to brunch," David said. "I think we need details."

"No," Emma said, forcefully enough that she knew she was just fueling their interest. "Guys, I love all of you very much, but I'm not talking to you about my secret admirer."

"She's still talking to him," Ruby said, but she was clearly addressing everyone as if Emma weren't there. "I mean, if she weren't, she would say so."

"Fine, I've stopped talking to him," she lied defiantly.

"She's lying," Mary Margaret said. "Things must be getting serious if they're still talking."

"It's definitely a guy in the building?" Victor asked.

"I think it's Hot Guy," Tink said.

"My money's on Snob With Sideburns," David said.

"Hold on." Victor grabbed a napkin and fished a pen out of his pocket. "All right. Tink says Hot Guy, and David says Snob With Sideburns. How much?"

"Fifty," Tink said. "I have faith."

"Thirty," David said. "Only because I sort of hope I'm wrong."

"Ruby?" Victor asked, jotting names and numbers down. Emma could do nothing except stare with her mouth slightly open."

"We sure it's a guy?" Ruby asked with a grin.

"It's a guy," Emma said, exasperated.

"Aha!" Ruby replied. "She admits it! Okay, I think it's Sexy Single Dad. Fifty bucks."

"Hm," Mary Margaret said. "Forty bucks on Eyebrows."

"All right," Victor said. "And I've got sixty bucks that says it's Pretty Boy. Emma? Care to place a bet?"

"I'm not betting on this," she said vehemently, but she was met with five incredibly skeptical glares. "Fine! I'll put twenty bucks on Elderly Italian Guy's Moderately Attractive Son."

"Really?" Mary Margaret asked as Victor recorded the bet.

"Process of elimination," she said. "Snob is too snobby to try to win me over with letters. Pretty Boy seems a little too sweet for the letters, and Eyebrows doesn't seem sweet enough. Sexy Single Dad is possible, but unlikely—I doubt this guy's got a kid. And it can't be Hot Guy for two reasons."

"What's that?" David asked.

"One," she said, holding up her index finger, "a guy who's _that_ hot doesn't need to send me letters to get my attention. And two," she lifted another finger, "there is not a single chance that I would ever get that lucky." She took a dramatic sip of her drink, effectively ending the conversation.

The rest of the evening was spent talking about plans for Christmas (Tink was going home, Victor wasn't, and Mary Margaret and David were visiting his mom, as usual), as well as what gifts people did or didn't want (Ruby dropped some hints about stores she loved that did gift cards, and Victor politely requested no more medicine-related gag gifts).

Mary Margaret and David begged off first, which surprised no one; they could get pretty touchy-feely when they'd been drinking, and Emma always preferred that they leave before she saw anything that scarred her for life. Tink was next; she'd volunteered for an extra shift at the hospital on Wednesday, since she wasn't going anywhere for Thanksgiving. Emma left soon after; Ruby was starting to pry for more information about the Captain, and she didn't want to talk about him.

Why _didn't_ she want to talk to her friends about him? Was it because she felt immature about having a secret admirer? Because she expected they'd pressure her to insist on meeting him? Because she was embarrassed about not _really_ knowing him? But it really wasn't any of their business.

There was a new note waiting for her when she finally stumbled back up to her apartment, nearly knocking over Eyebrows in the elevator.

_My Princess,_

_ What little family I've got left is a six hour flight away and they don't like me very much. So while I've got time off for Thanksgiving, I'll be here._

_ I absolutely agree with you; I don't wish to go so many days without talking to you. For the first time, you've actually caused me to dread upcoming vacation time. Look what I'm doing to you? Look what you're doing to _me,_ love._

_ I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed that your brother-in-law follows through and returns you to my (metaphorical) arms on Friday. In the meantime, have a lovely holiday with your family, and you can be assured that I shall be thinking of you._

_ Your Captain_

Wednesday morning, she slipped one last note under her doormat before heading out with her overnight bag; Mary Margaret and David would be picking her up straight from work around two o'clock in the afternoon.

_Captain—_

_ Is it terrible that I'm kind of hoping that I'm back by Friday night, too? I haven't seen my parents since my dad's heart attack, so you'd think I'd want to spend as much time with them as possible. But even though they've renovated the house and expanded it (I even get my own room now—score!), it just feels like I'm always a bit underfoot. And having my own room isn't the same thing as having privacy._

_ And I don't know, I guess there's this guy that I really like talking to, and I don't want to go half a week without talking to him. I'm a gal with her priorities in order._

_ I will miss you, but I'll be back soon._

_Happy holidays,  
__Your Princess_

* * *

**Thank you all so much for the amazing feedback, follows, and favorites! I love hearing what you all think of the story.**

**A gentle reminder: If you review anonymously, I can't really reply to anything you've said without doing it publicly, which I don't really like doing. I'm always happy to chat about constructive criticism over PM, if you're open to making an account (or signing in, if you have one).**


	8. Chapter 8

"So, how's work going, dear?" Regina asked. The five of them were digging into the delicious Thanksgiving meal after several hours of cooking; the stuffing was particularly spectacular this year.

"Really well," Emma replied around a mouthful of green beans. "There are a couple of difficult placements that seem to be working out. And last week, one family adopted their kid."

"Honey, that's great!" Leo said happily. They understood how much it meant to her when a kid was formally adopted. Emma couldn't help but smile; having her parents be proud of her was one thing, but having them be proud of her specifically for her work was even better. "And how are things besides work?"

"They're fine," she replied, taking a sip of water. Mary Margaret gave her an apprehensive glance from across the table for some reason.

"And how's Walsh?" Leo continued.

"Um," she replied slowly, and she caught Mary Margaret's knowing glance. Ah; that's why her sister had been giving her that look. "I'm not seeing Walsh anymore," she finally said, trying not to sound too happy or sad about it.

"What? What happened?" Leo asked, clearly concerned. But Regina just cleared her throat—she was very good at making it sound completely natural when she was _really_ signaling to you that you were making a serious misstep—and Leo quickly added, "I mean, we're really sorry to hear that."

"I'm really fine," Emma said. And it was true. She smiled at her parents. "Trust me. I'm a lot happier now."

It was the only flaw in an otherwise excellent dinner, besides all four of them chiding Leo, who kept trying to sneakily eat the Thanksgiving food that wasn't allowed on his post-heart attack diet. Afterwards, Emma, Mary Margaret, and David engaged in their annual Thanksgiving tradition of cleaning everything up so that Leo and Regina could relax and eat their dessert peacefully.

She briefly imagined what it would have been like had she not broken up with Walsh, and if he'd come with her to Thanksgiving. He probably would have talked everyone's ears off about furniture, and criticized some of the decor in the house. He was terrible at taking hints, so he probably wouldn't notice Regina's anger slowly grow from a smolder into a full on forest fire as he made passive aggressive comments about the home she'd worked so hard to build. He'd probably make a few comments about their supposed future together, which would have resulted in her having to explain to her parents later on that, no, she wasn't moving to the suburbs, and no, she wasn't going to marry this one.

Thank goodness he wasn't a part of her life anymore.

As she washed dishes and handed them to David to be dried, a strange little thought snuck its way into her mind. What would it have been like if the Captain had come to Thanksgiving?

In a lot of ways, the portrait that her imagination was able to paint was the epitome of abstract art. There were so many gaps in her knowledge, including (but not limited to) what on earth the Captain even looked like. She tried to force her mind's eye to imagine that he was Moderately Attractive Son if only as a placeholder, but her mind's eye would not cooperate and insisted that she think of him as Hot Guy.

But just based on the way he spoke to her in his letters, she was able to imagine little snippets of Thanksgiving dinner. He would compliment Regina on her cooking until her ears turned pink, and he would thank Leo profusely for inviting him to dinner. He would listen with interest as her family members talked about their lives, jobs, hobbies—genuine interest because he'd want to get to know her family. And he'd talk about his love of brunch food and classic films, tell her parents about his boat and how he'd actually lived on it for a few months several years ago. Or he'd recall his obsession with pirates when he was a boy, or chat excitedly with Leo about literature. And he'd ask for stories about Emma, and she'd pretend to be embarrassed, and he'd smile at her when no one else was looking, and without realizing it, they'd be holding hands under the table—

"Earth to Emma!" David was saying, quite loudly.

"Sorry, what?" Shit, she'd _really_ gotten lost in her thoughts.

"I said to slow down," her brother-in-law said. "I can't keep up with this brutal pace." He gestured to the dish rack, which was so full that dishes and kitchenware were threatening to slip and fall to the floor. Mary Margaret had even stopped putting items away so she could help dry.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "Here, I'll take over drying." She handed him the sponge.

"Everything okay?" Mary Margaret asked quietly as Emma and David switched places.

"Mmhmm, was just thinking about work," Emma lied. Her sister nodded, but Emma knew she wasn't fooling her. Mary Margaret wasn't able to tell when _anyone_ was lying, the way Emma was, but she _could _always tell when _Emma_ was lying.

After their traditional holiday screening of _Planes, Trains &amp; Automobiles_, the television somehow found its way to reruns of _The West Wing_, so Emma excused herself, grabbed a novel from Leo's extensive bookshelves, and went to the living room to read. She wasn't really in the mood for what had been Walsh's favorite show.

About a half hour later, to her surprise, Regina walked in with a couple of mugs of cocoa, topped with a generous amount of whipped cream and a sprinkling of cinnamon.

"What's wrong?" Emma asked, spotting the classic Blanchard family comfort snack.

Regina placed the mugs on the coffee table and gave Emma her _Yeah right, like you don't know what's wrong_ look. "What happened with Walsh?"

It was hard to suppress the adolescent urge to roll her eyes and say something like, "Ugh, _Mom!"_ But this was Regina. She didn't put up with that kind of behavior in her classroom, and she didn't put up with it in her household, either.

"I wasn't happy," she said simply. "I don't think I was all that happy to start with, and I just got progressively less happy." She shrugged. "I really am okay, though. It's not like things were when Neal and I broke up."

Regina nodded. "I'm glad," she said. "I mean, that you ended things when you realized you weren't happy, _and_ that this isn't like things were with Neal. In many ways. Do you want to tell me what happened, though?"

It was an instruction phrased as a yes-or-no question. "He treated me like a sure thing. Victor put it really well, actually," she said, recalling her conversation with him weeks ago. "Walsh treated the whole relationship like we were going to move in together and get married and have kids. If I asked him to stop doing something annoying or hurtful, he'd play it off like I was overreacting. But it was more than that. He'd already decided everything that was going to happen for us."

She thought back to her musings while she'd been washing dishes. "Like, if I'd brought him with me today, he would have told you guys all about how I would be moving into his house with him, or how I'd decided to find another job with better pay and hours. But none of that would have been _true._ He would have said that, and if I had corrected him in front of you all, he would have played it off as a misunderstanding."

"What made you finally end things?" Regina asked, reaching for her cocoa.

"Well, I _wish_ I could tell you that it was because he wanted me to sell my dresser when I moved in with him."

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Your dresser? The one _we_ bought you?"

"Yep. The one you bought me that I have every intention of keeping for the rest of my life. He didn't even want me to bring it to his place and put it in the basement."

"I hate to tell you this, dear, but I'm very disappointed that you didn't end his very existence right there and then."

"At least I broke up with him a week later," Emma said reassuringly. "I just had this really intense moment of clarity when he texted me saying that he wasn't up for coming here for Thanksgiving and wanted us to just stay at his place."

"How presumptuous, given that he was not invited."

"Exactly. And what really pissed me off even more was that he _knows_ that we're not coming up for Christmas this year, so this is the holiday I actually get to see you and Leo. It's not even like Walsh wanted to split the holiday so we could see _his_ family. He just wanted it to be the two of us."

"I'm sorry, dear," Regina said sincerely. "I know that you don't like wasting your time and affections."

"Yeah." She let out a sigh and sipped her cocoa.

"So, I'm not supposed to know about this," Regina said carefully, "but what's this about a secret admirer?"

This time, Emma did groan. "Can't Mary Margaret keep _anything_ a secret?"

"Well, your father doesn't know," Regina said, as though that were a comfort. "She really just mentioned it in passing, and you should give her some credit for refusing to elaborate. But I'd still like to know what's going on. Is this man stalking you?"

"It's not like that," Emma said defensively. "He's a tenant in my building, and I guess he was too shy to approach me or something. I don't know. He just started leaving me notes under my doormat, and I started replying."

"What else do you know about him? You're not telling him really personal things, are you?"

"No!" Emma said indignantly. Technically, she wasn't lying; her mother was asking about personal information like her work schedule or her phone number, in which case, Emma had been careful. But she was also pretty sure that moderately detailed descriptions of sexual fantasies counted as personal information. "Just, like … likes and dislikes. He knows what I look like, he knows my last name, and he knows my apartment number. That's it."

"And what do you know about him?"

"I know that he does something to do with law," she said, recalling some of the hints he'd made in his notes. "I know he has a small sailboat, and he lived on it for a few months a long time ago. He loves to read and watch old movies, and he likes going out for brunch. I know he doesn't really have much family, but that he's got a few good friends."

"And you're not getting any creepy vibes from him?"

"No," Emma replied emphatically. "He's been really respectful, and kind of sweet. Honestly." Regina's expression was difficult to read. "Seriously. Nothing creepy. Nothing's setting off alarm bells."

"Do you plan to meet him?"

"No!" She said it a little too forcefully, trying to reassure Regina that this was really nothing to worry about.

"Why not? I assume he's a grown adult, and while there are days when you make me wonder, you're usually a grown adult, too."

"Well, I mean …" Regina's response had taken her by surprise. She expected her mother to be a little more overprotective. And the truth was, she and the Captain had not brought up meeting since she'd asked him weeks ago, before Leo's heart attack. She'd taken him at his word that he wanted to get to know her first, but it was more than that.

"Listen, Emma," Regina said, interrupting her train of thought. "I've no doubt in my mind that Walsh was the wrong person for you. Had you brought him to Thanksgiving, I'm sure he would have left with your father's foot up his ass." Emma chuckled. "But I also know that you kept him at arm's length the entire time. You'd been together for how long when you broke up?"

"Almost eight months."

"By the time Mary Margaret had been seeing David that long, we'd already met him half a dozen times, and if there'd been a holiday to invite him to, we would have. But we barely heard anything about Walsh, and what little we could learn from your sister was just that you were telling everyone that it wasn't a serious relationship and that you were trying to take things slowly."

"But that was a good thing," Emma said insistently. "Remember what happened—"

"We all remember what happened with Neal," her mother interrupted. "But what your father and I remember that you seem to forget is that you were barely twenty years old. It's different now. You're a grown woman with experience, and you can spot red flags much more easily."

"I didn't with Walsh."

"Those were different red flags. Now you'll spot those, too. But you might miss out on the right person if you don't take a risk."

"You're saying I should hunt down my secret admirer and marry him?"

Regina rolled her eyes and downed the remainder of her hot chocolate dramatically. It was a move that Mary Margaret and Emma both emulated quite frequently, but neither one could pull it off quite like Regina. "Yes, dear, _clearly_ that's what I just told you." She sighed and patted Emma on the shoulder. "Well, thanks for telling me what happened with Walsh. I think I'm going to head to bed, if you'll excuse me. I've got to be up early tomorrow to make breakfast if you guys are leaving."

"We're leaving tomorrow?" Emma asked hopefully.

"Well, don't sound _too_ happy," Regina said sarcastically as she stood up and held out her hand for Emma's empty mug. "You missed the discussion earlier, but David and Mary Margaret want to make the drive to Connecticut tomorrow instead of just driving back to Boston first, and then heading to Connecticut on Saturday. So we're going to do breakfast around eight o'clock; is that all right with you?"

"Totally. Good night." Regina smiled at her before heading back towards the kitchen. "Oh, and Regina?" Her mother turned around. "Thanks."

* * *

**I hope that you all still enjoyed this chapter, even though we didn't have any letters from the Captain. I'll definitely make it up to you in the next chapter ... ;) I really love writing Regina, though.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Content note: This chapter contains sexual content.**

* * *

Emma was home by mid-afternoon on Friday, and she felt unreasonably excited as she approached her apartment and spotted the envelope under her doormat.

_My dearest Princess,_

_ I hope that you had a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family. What delicious food did you eat? Any family traditions? Any horribly awkward moments with racist uncles? (I don't really celebrate Thanksgiving, given my situation, but I hear that often the holiday involves keeping your mouth shut as older family members say incredibly offensive things; please correct me if I'm wrong.)_

_ I've spent the past couple of days thinking about you and missing you. I'm happy to tell you exactly how much, if you'd like. One word from you, and I'll describe it in every detail._

_ Damn it, Swan, I really do miss you. I've put out this note on Friday afternoon, hoping very much that my impatience somehow causes the balance of the universe to shift slightly in my favor and deposit you back in your apartment by the end of the evening. If instead, I've jinxed the whole situation and you do not return until Sunday, perhaps I will replace this note. I haven't decided yet; I'd hate for you to blame me for invoking Murphy's law, but at the same time, I can tell you've no patience for people who would lie about jinxing a situation._

_But, my god, Swan, I hope you're back before Sunday. It's already been excruciating. I'm practically dying over here, desperately missing you. I have problems._

_With tremendous affection,  
__Your Captain_

_My desperately lonely Captain,_

_ Clearly, your plan worked; I just got home, even earlier than I'd expected. My Thanksgiving was very nice—just a meal with my parents, my sister, and her husband. No racist uncles or anything! We do have one family tradition: we watch _Planes, Trains &amp; Automobiles._ It's the law._

_I've really missed you, too, and I would love to hear exactly what you dreamt last night. I couldn't do much dreaming myself, obviously. It would be _really_ embarrassing to wake up the whole household while moaning, "Oh _Captain." _It would be even worse if anyone tried to check on me and make sure I was okay; they'd probably find me spread out on the bed, with my hands in ridiculously inappropriate places. Maybe it wouldn't be embarrassing, though, since I'd have to notice that I'd been caught to be embarrassed. And when I'm home and have all the privacy in the world? Like right now? I probably would be much too swept up in my activities to notice anything at all._

_Happy holidays ;)  
__Your Princess_

_PS: I didn't want to throw this in with the sexy stuff, but my mom asked about you._

Damn it. She'd gotten a little too into it while writing the note. She took a few deep breaths before folding it up and sticking it underneath the doormat.

She wasn't going to admit this to him (or _anybody,_ really), but it actually _had_ been hard not to think about him, especially after her talk with Regina. And naturally, the fact that she _couldn't_ act on any of her urges meant that said urges were much, much stronger than usual. She'd actually caught herself absentmindedly reaching down the waistband of her underwear on Thursday night after she'd gone to bed, and she'd been so mortified that she'd had trouble sleeping.

She was tempted to take care of her now impossible to ignore arousal, but she wanted to read his reply first. After all, once she did, it would be a sure thing anyway: she'd given him the go-ahead to write something dirty.

To her immense shock, only about thirty minutes later, there was a light tap at her door.

Was it him? Holy shit, maybe it _was_ him. They said absence made the heart grow fonder, and she knew it made _other_ things stronger, too. Maybe he was finally ready to give up on this whole written foreplay business, and go straight to physical—

There was no one outside. Leaving her door open a crack, she quickly walked down the hallway several steps in each direction. There was no sign of anyone, and she didn't hear a door quickly shut either. But there were _two_ new envelopes.

It had to have been him. He'd _knocked on her door_ to let her know that he'd left the new note.

She had no idea what to make of that. But she'd deal with it later. She opened the enveloped marked "1."

_My unbelievably naughty Princess,_

_ It must have been very, very difficult for you to resist pleasuring yourself. But like you said, now, you're in the privacy of your own home. It would be very, very easy to just slip off whatever top you're wearing, and no one would be around to notice. Perhaps you should do just that._

She felt a rush of arousal at the same time as she felt a different kind of thrill run through her. Up until now, they'd just said things to get the other person hot. Easy stuff—what they were thinking about doing to each other, what they were doing to themselves. But now he was giving her instructions.

And it was fucking_ hot_. She removed her shirt and glanced back at the note.

_And your bra, my dear. While I've never seen your bare breasts, I've often dreamt of them, and if they are half as lovely as they are in my dreams, then it would be a shame to keep them hidden. And if they're encased in fabric, it would be terribly difficult for you to cup them while gently circling your nipples with your thumbs._

_It would probably feel quite wonderful if you were to do just that, but it would probably be even more wonderful if you did that while imagining that those were _my_ hands. Imagine just how much I'd take my time, enjoying your gorgeous breasts, and listening to the little noises you'd make as I caressed them._

_ And again, because you're in the privacy of your own home, it would be easy to relax on your bed, and stroke your lovely breasts for several minutes, all while thinking about how much we both wish that I were the one doing just that. And because you have privacy, I would never need to know just _how_ long you might lie there, squeezing those perfect breasts, or pinching and pulling on your nipples._

She almost crumpled the note by accident as she grabbed it and practically ran to her bed. A small voice in the back of her head warned her that this might fall under the category of "creepy" that Regina had been talking about. But that small voice was drowned out by the rest of her mind and every inch of her body.

Haphazardly propping the note up as best she could next to her on the bed, she lay back and did what she was told (oh god, _that_ was hot to think about, too). It was difficult, though, to imagine that he was the one touching her. While she did often think about him whenever she got off (which made sense, given that most of the time, she was getting off after reading a dirty note from him), she wasn't trying to really visualize that he was there with her. It was difficult to do without an idea of what he looked like.

She tried thinking about some of the suspects. While she'd bet on Moderately Attractive Son being the Captain, she'd only bet twenty bucks because she was hoping she'd be wrong. He wasn't unattractive (obviously, or his nickname would have been Not Really Attractive Son), but he didn't make her feel butterflies in her stomach. Or, of course, any sort of heat or wetness between her legs. There was always Sexy Single Dad, but even then, she had a hard time thinking about him as writing anything _this_ dirty. And Pretty Boy and Eyebrows seemed the types to be able to write sweetly or smutty, respectively, but not both.

She didn't want to think about Hot Guy. It couldn't be Hot Guy. It just _couldn't;_ he was miles out of her league, there was no way he was single, and the man was so absurdly hot that it was impossible to believe that he'd wanted to ask her out and didn't just _do_ it.

But he was _hot,_ and before the secret admirer messages started up, and before she'd started dating Walsh (okay, she wouldn't lie to herself—the _entire_ time she'd been dating Walsh), he'd played a starring role in a few fantasies.

And so she made a mental apology to the Captain before imagining him as Hot Guy, gently cupping her breasts and rubbing at her nipples. She'd been at it for several minutes before she remembered that there was more to the note. Not wanting to free up either hand, she craned her neck to read.

_I suppose we should both drop this needless charade and quit pretending that you _aren't_ splayed out on your bed like the wanton woman you are, positively dripping with need. In that case, I might have to insist that you reach down and give yourself a few feather-light strokes. I can guarantee that it will feel even better if you continue to tell yourself that it's me who's touching you._

Eyes shut, she did just that, and let out a startled moan as she nearly came. She'd had no idea how aroused she was until that moment, and he was absolutely right; imagining that it was his hand and not hers had made it much, much more arousing.

_While I'd love for you to tease yourself for hours, until your mind became overwhelmed with need, it would be ungentlemanly for me to keep you waiting. And at this point, I'm sure that my ministrations (for you can tell yourself that it's your hand, but we know that I'm really the one touching you) have gotten you extremely close to that desperately desired peak, and I can't bring myself to deny you._

_ So, my beautiful Princess, I want you to reach back down and let me make you come._

It was the best orgasm she'd had in years. And while she'd been joking about moaning his name (or nickname, whatever) when she'd written her note, she nearly did just that.

When she finally returned to earth, she picked up the letter again, her hands trembling a bit. She frowned; that was the whole note, and there wasn't even a closing. But then she remembered that there was another envelope. She wished she hadn't left it on the breakfast bar; it was a struggle to will her body to get up.

The note inside was folded, as usual, but he'd hand-scrawled _If you didn't like the first note, let me know and just ignore this one. _Had it occurred to him that it was the first time she would see his handwriting? Maybe, or maybe not. It was a careless half-print, half-script; it was hardly out of the ordinary for men's handwriting.

_My dear Princess,_

_ After reading your note, I had to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. And afterwards, it seemed as though it would be awfully bad form if you didn't get to experience the same pleasure that I did. If you're reading this note, then you either enjoyed the experience, or you're just insatiably curious, but I hope it was the former._

_ Speaking of curiosity, you've piqued my interest. You say your mother asked about me; I'm both excited and afraid to know how you answered her._

_Affectionately,  
__Your Captain_

_My Captain,_

_ You're right that I would have read the second note anyway, but yes, I absolutely _did_ enjoy your first note. I didn't think that I would find that experience as erotic as I did, but hey, you learn something new every day. Please please PLEASE do _not_ tell me whether or not you could hear me from your apartment. I'll be mortified either way._

_ I told my mom that you were very sweet. I told her a little about your interests, and I mentioned your boat (wouldn't you have been so upset if I hadn't?)._

_ And she asked me why you and I haven't met in person. And I wasn't sure what to tell her._

_ I know that we haven't talked about it in a while. And I think you were right that it's been incredibly enjoyable (in many ways, not just the way it was enjoyable tonight!) to get to know each other through these notes. But I'm starting to worry that we're just going to keep putting notes under my doormat until one of us loses interest. And I kind of don't want that to happen._

_ And to be honest, I think you might feel the same way, too. I heard you knock when you left the note. Things are starting to escalate a bit, and not in a bad way. I just wish I understood why things have to stay this way. I know that tonight might have been even more incredible if you really _had_ been the one touching me. And that can't happen if the most contact I have with you is you knocking on my door to leave a note._

_ I'm not saying that it's all or nothing. I can keep doing this for now, just not forever. I really actually for real _like_ you, okay?_

_Your Princess_

_My Princess,_

_ This is going to sound like a criticism of you, so please let me preface this with the insistence that this is a criticism of _me_._

_ I'm honestly scared that this isn't real. I'm not afraid that you've been leading me on, or that you're exaggerating your affections. Nor have I been dishonest with you about my own feelings and desires._

_ The last time I let someone into my heart, it almost destroyed my life. Since then, I have not been in a relationship, and in the past couple of years, the number of casual dalliances I've engaged in have dwindled to none._

_ When this all began, I thought that getting to know each other before truly meeting and dating would make it easier for me. You are a beautiful woman, and I did not want your beauty to lead me to treat you like just another woman I could bring into my bed. The notes were a way to establish a friendship first, but now things have changed._

_ And now I'm just terrified that we're going to meet, and all my walls will still be up. My beautiful Swan, I want to be able to let you into my heart as wholly as possible, so that I can't hurt you by trying to close myself off to you._

_ If you insist on meeting, then we will. I will not drag my feet or sigh at your relative impatience. If you want to meet, then we shall meet—and I _want_ to meet. I truly do. But I am not ready. When I'm ready, I swear to you, I will not delay._

_Yours truly,  
__Your Captain_

_My Captain,_

_Thank you for being so honest with me. We'll wait to meet until you're ready, and I won't harass you about it. I mean, I'm not sorry that I asked. But I am satisfied with your answer._

_I don't exactly have the best track records with relationships either. So I understand what it feels like when you're not ready. Maybe someday, I'll understand what it feels like to _be_ ready, but that might be a pipe dream._

_I need to get some rest—an extremely long car ride, followed by what can only be described as an explosive orgasm will really take it out of ya. Get some sleep; we'll talk tomorrow._

_Your Princess_

* * *

**Well, no one said that the sexy stuff had to wait until _after_ they officially meet ...**


	10. Chapter 10

Saturday afternoon, Emma found herself in a completely empty, completely silent laundry room. Not a single machine was in use. Either everyone in the building was home for Thanksgiving and hadn't returned yet, or she had slipped into the Twilight Zone and would soon experience some terrible fate. And if the Twilight Zone scenario were true, then her fate was sealed anyway, so there was no reason to worry. She quickly threw all three loads of laundry in three different machines and did a little victory boogie before turning around to grab her detergent.

Only to find Hot Guy standing in the doorway, carrying his laundry basket, and raising an eyebrow in sexy curiosity. Dear lord.

"Sorry," she said quickly. "It's just, this room is never empty."

"That's true," he replied before carrying his basket over to a free washing machine. His biceps were bulging out from underneath his shirt, and it was distracting. She could feel the blood rush to her face as she quickly added her detergent and swiped her card in each machine's card reader. As she made to leave, Hot Guy called out after her. "Actually, do you have a second?"

Oh god, he was British. Of course he was British.

"Uh, sure," she replied eloquently, acutely aware of her sweatpants.

"This might be a little forward," he began, and then he reached out and scratched behind his ear. "But I've seen you around the building, and I was wondering if you might want to go out sometime."

She was definitely in a Twilight Zone episode.

"I'm Killian, by the way," he said, holding out his hand to shake hers.

"Emma," she said. His hand was warm and calloused. He probably worked in construction or something. It would explain how buff he was.

He smiled, and she wondered if she might faint. "So, would you like to?" When she didn't reply, he added, "Go out sometime, that is. I'm free for drinks tonight if you're up for it."

It was a dream come true. Hot Guy—Killian—was asking her on a date.

And she felt all wrong.

"I …" She couldn't believe what she was about to say. "I'm so sorry, but I'm actually seeing someone," she said quickly. She could feel her blush extend to the roots of her hair. "But, uh, it's really nice to finally meet you."

He seemed a little disappointed, but otherwise completely undismayed. He couldn't possibly be used to rejection, Emma thought, but at least he could probably find someone else to go out with whenever he wanted. "Well, no harm in asking," he said jovially. "And at least I've finally introduced myself after living here for the past year. See you around, Emma."

"See you around," she echoed, and she smiled sympathetically at him before turning tail and practically running back to her apartment.

She called Tink. "You will not believe what just happened, although I also have some bad news for you. What do you want first?"

"Bad news."

"You're definitely losing the bet."

"What bet—oh! Really? Emma! Do you know who he is?"

"Well, I know he's not Hot Guy because Hot Guy _just_ asked me on a date."

The squeal from her phone was almost deafening. "Emma! Are you serious?"

"Completely serious. It just happened, just now."

"So are you guys getting drinks or something? Oh! Did you finally learn his name?"

"His name is _Killian,_ he's got a British accent and his voice is like liquid sex, and we're not going out."

Tink was silent for a moment. "But you said he asked you out."

"Yeah."

"Oh no, was he joking?"

"No, he was serious."

"Emma … oh, honey, you said no?"

"Yeah."

"Was he … I don't know, creepy or something? Was he offensive about asking you out?"

"Nope. Perfect gentleman. Fulfilled every Hot Guy expectation."

She could almost hear realization dawn on her friend. _"Oh._ Ah. Okay, that makes sense."

"What makes sense?"

"See, _this_ is why you need to tell us things. You're in a relationship with your secret admirer!"

She let out a whine. "I don't know. I feel like it hardly counts, but when Hot Guy finally asked me out, instead of being excited, I just felt _guilty_ for considering a date with him. Like I'd be cheating. I know, this is absolutely bonkers, right?"

"It's not bonkers, Emma. You're falling for the guy. You don't want to see other people because you want to see _him."_

"But it's not like I'm in a relationship with him."

"I mean … aren't you?"

"I …"

"Come on, Emma."

"Look, I just called you tell you what happened, but I've gotta go. I have to get my laundry out of the dryer. And _please_ don't tell anyone!" As though that would stop the news from spreading like wildfire, but it was always worth a shot.

"Okay, okay, I won't. But we'll talk later."

"Okay, bye."

It had been a lie—she had a good twenty-five minutes left on the washer—but she needed an excuse to get off the phone.

Her mind raced, as it frantically tried to find a thought to focus on. She was still replaying the interaction with Hot Guy—Killian—over and over, and trying to figure out _why_ she'd really said no … _without_ thinking about what Tink had said.

Why _did_ it feel like this? What was _wrong _with her?

She didn't want to go out with Hot Guy. He was practically impossibly attractive, even more so now that she knew his name was Killian and that he had the world's sexiest voice, and she didn't want to go out with him. Because … she wasn't available.

Mercifully, when she went to throw her laundry in the dryer, and when she returned one final time to pick it up, Hot Guy wasn't there. When she arrived back at her apartment, there was a new envelope; she wasn't quite sure what emotions she felt when she saw it there.

_Dearest Swan,_

_ I hope that you slept well. I apologize for the lateness of this message, but I slept poorly last night. And to be honest with you, for I find I must always be honest with you, I fear that I've upset you, and I'm not sure what to say to make amends. I find it to be bad form to pretend that a conflict never occurred, and while I have no desire to pick at a fresh scab, so to speak, I really want to make sure you're okay. And, well, that _we're_ okay._

_Still yours,  
__Your Captain_

She wasn't upset, but she was in some kind of funk, that was for sure. She had been … what? Disappointed? Sad? A little hurt that she'd now asked him twice to meet and he'd said no? But she hadn't felt this out of sorts all day. Just since Hot Guy asked her out.

Ah. _That_ was it.

_My dear Captain,_

_I won't lie to you either. I am feeling a bit weird since our discussion last night. But it's just something I need to deal with. I know you're not ready to meet, and I know that it'll definitely ruin it for me if we meet when you're not ready. I'll be okay—I promise. Knowing that you do want to meet eventually is enough right now. I just need to stop pouting._

_I should tell you: someone asked me out today. Another tenant in the building. I told him no. And I want to tell you _why_ I told him no._

_I told him no because I felt like I'd be cheating on you. I know this might sound ridiculous, but this feels like a relationship to me, and I want to call it that. But I have no idea what you're feeling about this. I mean, I could guess, but I've been wrong before so …_

_ Your Princess (she hopes)_

_My Princess—yes, mine,_

_ I feel the same way. I know what you mean; it is rather odd. But I have no intention of seeing anyone else romantically or sexually. I just want you, love. Thank you for being patient with me._

_ I would not have been upset had you agreed to go out with that other tenant. Well, it would be more accurate to say that I would have been upset with myself; your actions would have been completely understandable. But I cannot even begin to find the words to express how it feels to know that you chose me._

_ Yes, love. I do see this as a relationship, however unconventional a one it might be._

_Absolutely, totally, very much yours,  
__Your Captain_

* * *

**A shorter chapter, but obviously a pivotal one!**

**People who'd bet that Killian was Hot Guy, please collect your winnings!**


	11. Chapter 11

Emma was really, _really_ ready for a holiday break. She knew she wouldn't really get one—just Christmas and New Year's—but damn, work was getting stressful. She was a little relieved that Leo and Regina were going on a cruise for Christmas so she wouldn't have to go all the way up to Maine on her own this year. But it also meant that she might get called in on Christmas Day, and given how much of a trainwreck her caseload was, two days before Christmas, there was a decent chance it would happen.

And it was very important that she didn't have to work on Christmas because she had _plans_. Sort of.

She and the Captain had made plans, not to meet, but to be around all day to engage in some together-but-separate activities. Specifically, they were going to both watch _Home Alone_ on Christmas Eve while drinking wine, they were both going to make pancakes Christmas morning, they were going to exchange gifts in the afternoon, and they were going to watch _It's a Wonderful Life_ in the evening while drinking Old Fashioneds. And, of course, they'd be exchanging notes throughout the day, and there would probably be some erotic messages in the mix.

She did wonder whether or not he might be planning to surprise her by asking to meet. It seemed a little silly to be watching the same movie in separate apartments in the same building, and would make one hell of a Christmas gift. But she didn't want to get her hopes up again.

Things had just been going so _well_ between them, ever since they'd officially labeled what they had together as a relationship. Not much had changed, but knowing that she was getting letters from her _boyfriend_ felt a lot different than when she was just getting letters from her secret admirer. And while she noticed he was still careful about avoiding topics that might give away his identity, she still felt like she _knew_ him. Although she did avoid giving up the same sort of information as well; she informed him early on that if she didn't get to know exactly what he did for a living, he didn't get to know what she did either.

Her Christmas plans with him were supposed to be a secret, but of course, given how badly everyone kept secrets, they weren't. Tink insisted that she'd _tried_ not to tell anyone about Emma turning down Hot Guy because of the Captain, but that Mary Margaret had weaseled it out of her ("She's like a conversational wizard!"). And then, of course, Victor found out from David, and Ruby found out from Victor (that was a little weird; usually Ruby found stuff out from Mary Margaret).

To her immense surprise, though, they were all supportive of her unconventional relationship. They never commented on his reluctance to meet in person, and they just treated her as though everything was totally _normal;_ she might as well have been in a long-distance relationship. They referred to him as Emma's boyfriend, and asked after him just like they'd asked after Walsh (although she was much happier to talk about the Captain).

It helped that he sent her to brunch at Stephanie's _again_, this time insisting that she take all her friends with her. She had informed the Captain that both Ruby _and_ David had announced they were considering competing with Emma for his affections, and she'd also passed along a photo of the Bloody Mary Victor had ordered (with eight different garnishes).

She found that she was able to talk about the Captain without feeling ashamed or embarrassed, and even found herself telling _him_ about her friends (not by name; how many Tinker Bells or Victor Whales could there possibly be?). He reciprocated, recounting some of his exploits with his three best friends (a detective, a librarian, and … well, he wasn't clear what the third friend did, but he ran some sort of retail business). It was clear from his letters that his friends knew about her, and (while it sounded like one of them was giving him a good ribbing about the situation) were just as supportive as hers.

She just hoped everyone would still be supportive when they finally _met_.

But when she finally got home from work that day, two days before Christmas, and the doorman stopped her on her way to the elevator, she knew something was wrong. "Apartment three-eleven?" he asked her from behind the desk.

"Um, yeah," she said cautiously. "Is there a problem?"

He shrugged. "I was asked to give these to you." He handed her two thick yellow padded shipping envelopes; one was simply labeled, "Swan: 311 #1," and the other clearly had another address on it initially, but the shipping address had been entirely defaced and, "#2" had been written on it.

She rushed upstairs. There was no note under the doormat.

When she opened the first package, she found several envelopes with dates on them; fanning them out, she confirmed they were in order, starting with the current date. While she was reminding herself that she _liked_ letters from the Captain, and these were clearly just that, she had a feeling she wasn't about to like what was going on. She opened the first letter.

_My beloved Princess,_

_ This morning, I received a call from a family member imploring me to return home for the holidays. I will be forthright: my selfish bastard of an estranged father is on his deathbed, and the remaining members of my extended family are certain that he will not survive much longer. As I write this letter to you, I am in the process of booking transportation home; I am his next of kin._

_ It's bad enough that I am leaving you, even temporarily (I'm not _leaving _you—you know that). It's bad enough that I'm leaving at Christmas. It's bad enough that I'm ruining our plans. I feel terrible. I cannot abandon you._

_ So I've done all that I can do on such short notice. I've enclosed a letter for each day that I am forcibly parted from you. Because of this unexpected turn of events, I had not had a chance to properly prepare your gift; please excuse the incredibly unattractive packaging._

_ As it stands now, I am due to return on January 1st. Obviously, the circumstances I'm in are not so clear-cut; I've no way to know when (it has been made very clear to me that this is a "when, not if" situation) my father will pass, and if I will have to stay longer. But the thought of beginning the new year without you is unsavory at best, and unbearable at worst; if I plan to be home by then, then perhaps fortune will see fit to show me favor._

_ This turn of events has made one thing crystal clear to me: I can't wait any longer. When I do return home, love, do not expect a note under your doormat. Expect me, standing atop it, begging your forgiveness for asking you to wait this long, and for having to leave in the first place._

_Already counting the days till our reunion,  
__Your Captain_

She picked up her cell phone and immediately called Mary Margaret. "What's wrong, honey?"

"He's gone."

"What?"

"The Captain."

"What? What do you mean, _gone?"_

"He had to go home."

"Oh, no. Sweetie, I'm so sorry. How long is he gone for?"

"January," she replied glumly. "Add in the fact that I might have to work Christmas, this is the suckiest holiday season _ever."_

"Well, are you busy tonight? I know we're leaving super early tomorrow, and Tink's on her way home already, but it's worth calling around."

"That might not be a bad idea. Can you come out to my neck of the woods? This whole situation is making me feel like shit."

"No problem. I think it'll just be me, though; David had the worst commute home today and I don't think he's up for leaving the apartment. Where do you want to go?"

"Sunset? Seven o'clock? I'll call Victor and Ruby."

"Okay, see you at seven."

Ruby was unusually slow to answer her cell. "Hey, Ruby, Sunset at seven?"

"Um, okay. Is everyone else coming?"

"Me and Mary Margaret, and I'm going to call Victor. That okay?"

"Yeah, definitely. All right, I'll see you soon." It was a shockingly quick conversation, given Ruby's propensity for gossip. Why hadn't she wanted to know why Emma wanted to go out for drinks? She shrugged and called Victor.

"Hey, you up for going out tonight?"

"Yeah, sure. See you soon."

"Um, don't you want to know where? Or _when?" _She frowned. "You haven't started drinking already, have you?"

"No, no! Sorry, it's just been a long day." The phone was momentarily muffed, and then he asked, "So, where and when?"

"Sunset, at seven o'clock."

"All right, I'll see you there." And he hung up. That had been weird.

At the bar, Emma was regretting her decision. Her friends just kept staring at her. "Guys, stop it," she said. "You're supposed to be distracting me."

"Sorry," Victor said apologetically. "I'll order you another drink."

"She has to work tomorrow," Ruby reminded him.

"She can work with a hangover," he replied firmly. "We've all done it. It's part of adulthood."

"Guys, _distract_ me," Emma said, the first two drinks in her system leaving her to complain childishly.

"Um, okay," Ruby said. "Do you want to watch a movie tonight?"

"This late?" Mary Margaret asked.

_"You_ don't have to work tomorrow."

"Yeah, but I do, and since my apartment's the closest, I'd be hosting," Emma reminded her. "And clearly, I'm not in the mood."

"His dad is dying?" Victor asked; Ruby swatted his arm and gave him a warning look.

"Yeah. He called him a selfish bastard, and said they're estranged. This is the first time he's ever mentioned him. So I think this is an all around miserable situation. And here I am whining like a teenager because my boyfriend is out of town for a week."

"A week and a half," Ruby said sympathetically. "And during the holidays. Sorry!" she added quickly, as Mary Margaret shot _her_ a warning glare. "Look, I'm just trying to validate her feelings!"

"Yeah, Emma," Victor jumped in. "You can still feel sad and maybe even a little angry about this."

"Thanks for the permission," she replied sarcastically before taking another sip of her third margarita.

Her phone beeped with a text from Tink. _STILL laid over. What happened?_

She tapped her reply. _Capn had to leave till new years bc dads dying. obvs im not handling it well_

Mary Margaret's phone suddenly rang. "Hey, Tink, what's up?" Her eyes widened slightly and she glanced at Emma. "Well, that was Victor's fault. Yeah, okay." She put her phone on speaker.

"Emma, are you okay?" Tink asked, her voice scratchy over the phone's connection.

"Would you be?" she retorted.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"I'm not a freshman, Tink."

"Okay, so that's at least two." Damn her friends for knowing her so well. "Emma, I'm really sorry."

"It's fine," she said, but she couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice. "What's he supposed to do? Stay here with me?"

"I wonder why he didn't just tell you in person," Mary Margaret mused.

"If he had to leave the letters and the package with the doorman, he probably had already left for the airport by the time she got home," Victor pointed out.

"What letters? What package?" Tink was out of the loop.

"He left her a letter for every day that he's going to be gone, and he left her her Christmas present," Ruby explained.

"And he said he's going to finally introduce himself when he gets back," Mary Margaret added.

"Shit," Tink said loudly, and then they could hear her apologize to some passersby at the airport. "That's kind of romantic."

"Yeah, as romantic as sitting on my ass for a week and a half without getting to talk to him," Emma said.

"Well, he wrote _you_ letters," Tink said. "Why don't you reply?"

"Yeah," Ruby said, her eyes brightening a little. "It'll give you something to do, and it'll make you feel like you're still able to talk."

"But he won't get them till he gets back," Emma grumbled. "That's stupid, you guys." But … maybe it wasn't? And it was at least something to do.

"I've gotta run, guys," Tink said. "I think my damn flight is finally boarding. Emma, I love you, sweetie, hang in there."

"Thanks, Tink."

"Have a Merry Christmas, you guys!"

Mercifully, the night wound down after that. Mary Margaret had opted to drive to the bar, so she hadn't been drinking; she drove Emma home and helped her straighten up the apartment to make her feel a little better. Emma appreciated that her sister avoided snooping through the letters from the Captain (both the stack of letters during his absence, and the overflowing drawer of them from the past two months).

When her sister finally left, after hugging her tightly and promising a Skype session on Christmas Day, Emma grabbed her legal pad and wrote her first reply.

_My dear Captain,_

_ I am so sorry about your father. Even if he is/was a selfish bastard, that doesn't mean that this isn't a hard time for you. I hope that your trip home is as painless as it can be, and that you're still able to enjoy the holidays. Maybe it's better that our Christmas plans are cancelled, since I might have to work anyway. But it's really not better because it'll probably make me miss you more._

_ And I already miss you one hell of a lot. I know it's just for a week and a half, but this is already so much worse than Thanksgiving was. And if _I'm_ this disappointed, I can't imagine what _you're_ going through right now._

_ Look, I know this is really stupid because you're going to get these letters all at once, but screw it. I'm going to reply to every single one of these letters and give them all to you when you get back. I can't think of anything else I can do._

_ I know I should just be looking forward to seeing you—really, _really_ seeing you—when you get back, and I really am, but this just isn't fair. I want you here _now_. Nine days is clearly too long._

_I'll forgive you for leaving if you'll forgive me for being incredibly sullen and moody like a teenager._

_Missing you very much already,  
__Your Princess_

* * *

**I updated a little earlier than usual as an apology for the length of the last chapter!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Content note: Sexual content.**

* * *

The next day, Emma had hoped to finish her work early, but since it was Christmas Eve, and so many of her colleagues were traveling or home with their families, she had to take on some extra work that had to get done before the holiday. The letter waiting for her at home provided her with a lot more motivation than she usually had to finish up and get the hell back to her apartment.

When she finally got home, she forced herself to get through some basic housekeeping tasks before reading the letter. She wasn't sure what would be inside—something romantic? Sexy? Sad? Funny?—but she knew she wasn't going to want to have any adult responsibilities to worry about after reading. She sorted through the rest of her mail first: a card from Leo and Regina, reminding her that they loved her and missed her, and that she should Skype in with them on Christmas Day; another reminder from the apartment complex about the laundry room hours (this time, the reminder also wished tenants happy holidays with _another_ reminder that loud parties were prohibited); and a letter from Walsh which she didn't even bother to open. She threw it straight into the recycling; he'd tried to get in touch with her occasionally since their break-up, and clearly hadn't been discouraged by her lack of reply.

She then straightened up her apartment as quickly as possible, threw a frozen dinner into the microwave, and tore open the letter.

_My lovely princess,_

_ Again, I am so sorry to leave you like this. While you are one day closer to our reunion (our _real_ reunion), I am still in the past, on the first day of our separation. Please forgive me in advance because I'm sure that each letter is going to get more and more desperate._

_I can't stop now, can I? I have to keep going._

_It's nearly two o'clock, and while my flight isn't until seven, I barely even have an hour before I must finish these letters and leave the office, if I'm to make that damn flight. But for you, it's Christmas Eve. I hope that you were able to get your work done so that you would have a chance at a peaceful, uninterrupted Christmas Day._

_At the risk of ruining everything, I sort of dislike Christmas. I got dumped on Christmas one year; I do not recommend experiencing this. This was the life-altering heartbreak I mentioned to you long ago; I nearly drank myself to death afterwards. It was my friends who saved me (well, B really. G never knows how to help, and J often delights in making things worse.)_

_I'm telling you this now so that tomorrow's letter can be appropriately festive, without any sort of Scrooge-esque attitude to spoil the mood._

_I'm not sure how to finish this letter. It was supposed to have a point, but I think perhaps I'm panicking at the realization that I have to get on a plane in a few hours, and go a week and a half without you._

_Truly yours, from miles away,  
__Your Captain_

_My Captain,_

_I did get my work done, although that doesn't mean I'm not going to get a phone call tomorrow. I'd rather stay home and miss you than go to work and miss you, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed._

_ I hope I never get dumped on Christmas. That sounds awful. I was about to ask you what happened, but you won't get this letter for several more days. So I guess I'll have to wait to ask. Or maybe you'll answer my question in one of the other letters. I haven't opened any letters early. I know you'd never know if I did, but I want to do this the right way, you know?_

_ You certainly haven't ruined Christmas for me. I actually grew up in the foster system, so a lot of the time, I was in group homes for Christmas, and I rarely got any gifts. Or gave any gifts. Meeting my sister—adoptive sister, obviously—was life-changing in that way; now gift-giving is a huge thing with me. That's why I was so eager to exchange gifts with you. For me, giving gifts is a way of showing someone that you know them, and that you care about them._

_ But I don't decorate or anything like that. No Christmas tree. I don't send Christmas cards. I don't go caroling or whatever. I don't do ugly sweater parties, or use green and red wrapping paper. I hate eggnog. You think _you're_ the Scrooge?_

_ Please tell me that I'm not absolutely nuts for thinking that it's wonderful that neither of us is that big on Christmas. Please tell me that I'm not ridiculous for taking it as a sign of compatibility. Well, please just come home so you can tell me anything at all._

_Your Scrooge-in-crime (partner in Scrooging?),  
__Your Princess_

She watched _Home Alone_ and had a glass of wine anyway, pretending that he was doing the same.

Christmas Day, she awoke to find texts from her parents, from Mary Margaret, Tink, Victor, and Ruby. There was another voicemail from Walsh, which she promptly deleted before replying to all the text messages, arranging a Skype dates with Mary Margaret and her parents for later in the afternoon.

After lying in bed watching crappy TV for a couple hours, she finally got up and changed into her favorite pair of yoga pants and sleep shirt, made pancakes (as she'd planned), and sat down to open the packages she'd received in the mail as Christmas had approached.

Regina and Leo had sent her a brand new comforter; they'd remembered that Emma had mentioned at Thanksgiving that she was still using her old one from college. Mary Margaret and David had sent her a photo album filled with photos of the three of them and their friends, from high school through college and grad school, at their wedding and Emma's grad school graduation party, and during all the random nights out at the bar, or in playing games.

Tink had sent her a new set of wine glasses—nice ones, _really_ nice ones—a tacit apology for breaking two of them last time she'd visited. From Victor, she'd received a gorgeous diploma frame; she'd commented that her graduate degree was somewhere in the back of her closet, and he had seemed mildly offended on her behalf. Her phone alerted her to an email from Sephora; Ruby had given her a generous gift card.

A final mystery package was (she realized, letting out a groan) from Walsh; she didn't even need to read the accompanying message to know it was from him. The last time Walsh had been over, he'd commented on her mismatched cocktail set she'd put together over the course of several years. She'd been offended and had told him so: not only had each piece meant something to her in terms of its origin and how she'd acquired it, but she also saw no need for a new set when hers was entirely functional.

Of course, the card confirmed that it was from Walsh. _Merry Christmas, Emma. I'd been planning on getting you this for a while and I couldn't just forget about it. Please call me when you get a chance._

Nope. That was so not happening.

She saved the Captain's gift for last. Inside the defaced packing envelope was a small cardboard jewelry box and a packing slip. Well trained, Emma averted her eyes from the slip (it was rude to look at payment information and pricing when it was a gift; Regina had raised her well) and instead undid the box's ribbon.

It was a necklace. It was incredibly simple: just a long silver chain with a pendant at the end. The pendant was heavy—probably silver—and it was styled like a wax seal. It had a swan on it.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone. Mary Margaret would be busy all day with Nolan family stuff, as usual (David's mom took the holidays up to eleven), and wouldn't be free until their Skype date. Tink was home in New Zealand; it would still be relatively early in the morning for her. She couldn't remember if Victor was working Christmas Day or not. But she knew that the diner would be closed today, and Ruby wouldn't mind an emergency Christmas Day phone call.

"Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal!" she said when Ruby picked up the phone.

To her surprise, Ruby seemed a little out of it. "Uh, yeah, merry Christmas, sweetie. Is everything okay?"

"Um, mostly. Is this a bad time? Am I interrupting anything?"

"No! No, definitely not. What's up?"

"You won't believe what I got from him."

"The Captain?"

"Yes—" she paused. She could have sworn she'd heard someone else. "Ruby, is there someone there with you?"

"Uh …"

Emma chuckled. "Why didn't you tell me you were _with_ someone? I can call you back later. I'm probably just panicking."

"No, it's okay, sweetie, just give me a minute." She heard Ruby put the phone down and have a conversation with someone in hushed tones. She was probably kicking her one night stand out (or maybe she was getting dressed to go home). "Okay, talk to me. Oh! Thanks for the sweater, by the way!"

"You're welcome! And thanks for the gift card!"

"So, a gift? From the Captain?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Well, it's … it's a necklace."

"What's wrong with the necklace? Is it a diamond necklace or something?"

"Oh god, no. It's a pendant with a swan on it."

"That's so sweet! And that's perfect; it's close to what you got him."

"I know."

"Are you okay? You sound sad. Do you not like it?"

"I just …" Oh god. She was crying. Emma Swan was _crying. _Over a _necklace._ From a _guy._

"Oh, honey, it's okay. He'll be home really soon."

"I know." She took a deep breath, hoping that she could stop her tears (or at least slow them down a little).

"Are you gonna be okay, hon?"

"Yeah, I think so." She sighed. "Anyway, thanks for letting me be a little crazy at you. Oh! And you won't believe what else I got."

"What?"

"Walsh got me a cocktail set."

Ruby practically shrieked with laughter. "At least it'll be easier to get rid of than those horrible bar stools were."

Emma groaned. _That_ had been terrible. For her birthday, which had been only a couple of weeks before their break-up, Walsh had insisted on getting her new bar stools. When she'd pointed out (gently; she knew not to be openly critical of a gift) that she liked her current ones, he'd scoffed at her and pulled his I Know Everything About Furniture and Good Taste card, saying that hers were too old and outdated. And she couldn't return them, since they'd come from _his_ shop.

She'd sold them on Craig's List by the following weekend and hoped fervently that he'd forget about them before the next time he came over. Of course, he never did come back over.

"Oh, hold on," Ruby said quickly, and then Emma heard the phone muffle a bit, as though Ruby were covering the microphone.

"He got her a cocktail set," she heard Ruby say.

"The Captain?" The other voice was harder to hear.

"No, Walsh!"

"You're kidding." But the inflection was familiar.

"No. The Captain got her jewelry."

"Good, he's not an idiot." Oh god ...

"Sorry about that," Ruby said, returning the phone to her ear.

"Ruby, why is Victor there?" she asked.

There was a brief pause. "Victor's not here," Ruby said quickly.

"Oh my god." She thought back to when she'd called everyone to go out for drinks a few nights earlier. "Oh my _god. _Eliza Ruby Lucas and Victor Anders Whale, are you two _having sex?!"_

"Emma, you _cannot _tell _anyone._" Victor had commandeered the phone. "You can't tell _anyone_, do you promise?"

"Isn't this like friend incest or something? Or against the bro code?"

"Since when do you even _care_ about the bro code?" Victor asked, but Emma could hear Ruby wresting the phone back from him.

"Emma Swan, don't you _dare_ tell anyone about this. _Anyone_. Not even the Captain. I swear, if you do, I will spill every last secret you've ever told me."

The only appropriate response was to hang up.

Ruby and Victor? _Ruby and Victor? _Emma laughed. Clearly, this was something serious that hadn't been going on for very long. Ruby and Victor were two of the most sexually casual people she'd met in her life; she'd known both of them to engage in friends-with-benefits relationships with other people before. For them to be so secretive and embarrassed, this _had_ to be something pretty big. And, given how easily they'd been caught, it had to be relatively recent.

Wow. Well, she'd keep that a secret for now, but eventually, everyone else was going to find out. She knew; she'd seen _Friends._

Giggling almost drunkenly, she flopped down on her bed, halfway on top of her new comforter. Slowly, her thoughts returned to the necklace.

It was, in all ways, the perfect gift. Victor, although he hadn't meant for her to hear, had been right; jewelry had been an excellent choice. And this piece in particular was perfect. It was simple enough, but not too simple; it was personal without inviting questions; and while she knew better than to check the packing slip, she could guess that it wasn't cheap, but that he hadn't overspent.

The packing slip.

Oh god, the _packing slip._

Her phone alerted her to her incoming Skype call from Mary Margaret. "Merry Christmas!" her sister said, waving happily. "Thank you so much for the Modcloth gift card! And David says thank you for the beer glass set! How did you like your gift?"

"The album is absolutely amazing," she said honestly. "Thank you guys so much."

"Emma?" Her sister's face grew concerned. "Emma, were you crying?"

Emma sighed before showing her the necklace; Mary Margaret made the appropriate oohs and aahs. "But I just realized something and I need your advice on it."

"What's that?"

"I think he'd planned on leaving the box with the necklace on my doormat on Christmas Day, but because he had to leave so quickly, he just took the package it came in and scrawled out his shipping information."

"And you're irritated?"

"No, I don't care about that. I just mean … Mary Margaret, there's a packing slip."

"Oh my god." Mary Margaret immediately understood. "Emma, what are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know," she said with exasperation. "But it had to be an accident."

"Do you think so?"

"He was in such a rush; I can tell from his letters. And the way he crossed out his name and address on the packaging was definitely done in a hurry. And besides, if he did it on purpose, why bother hiding his shipping information?"

"Maybe it's a test," Mary Margaret suggested. "Maybe he wants to see what you'll do with that information. Like, if you'll notice it."

"That doesn't sound like something he'd do." She covered her face with her hand and sighed. "Ugh. I don't know what to do."

"If you think it was an accident, then I think you know what you should do. You should throw it out without looking."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You trust him, and you don't want to take advantage of the fact that he was in such a hurry to get to his father's bedside. You'll feel like a bad person if you check it. I know you well enough."

"Okay." She let out a shaky sigh. "Okay. I won't look. Thanks. Oh wait!"

"What?"

"Ruby and Victor are banging."

"_What?!"_

After ending the Skype session with Mary Margaret (who would tell David, and probably Tink, about Ruby and Victor), Emma carefully picked up the packing slip from where it had fallen on the floor. She moved to put it in her paper recycling bin, but … she didn't want to just throw it out. She wasn't going to read it, but soon, it wouldn't matter if she did. Soon, she'd know who the Captain was anyway. And then she could show him the packing slip, and he could see how much she trusted him. She slid it into the top drawer of her nightstand, and then went to open her letter.

_My dearest Swan,_

_ By now, I hope you've opened your gift. If not, please open it. I'm sorry that I'm going to have to deliver it to you still in the packaging it arrived in, but hopefully you won't be too offended._

_ Have you opened it? Good._

_ I hope that you like it. I couldn't resist a necklace fit for my beautiful Swan, and I imagine that this will look quite lovely on you. And now, for another gift to make up for my absence, I suggest that you begin by putting on your lovely gift and taking off everything else._

She shivered before pulling her clothes off. Would he have done this if he'd been home? Probably. Ever since the first explicit letter he'd sent her, they exchanged similar ones several times a week. She mostly stuck to descriptions of what she was doing, thinking, or feeling, knowing that her thoughts were enough to get him off. But he would tell her what she should do, often reminding her that she should pretend that her hands were his, and every time she followed his directions, she'd find herself in bed, soaked in sweat and trying not to wake her neighbors (although she always secretly hoped that he could hear her).

_I want you to lie back on your bed, and begin by slowly caressing your skin, from your neck to your breasts, down your stomach, and finally across your inner thighs. Are they as creamy white as I've imagined? Stroke yourself all over for me, paying special attention to any particular spot that feels unusually erogenous. You know that if I were there with you, I'd find those spots and tease them, tickle them, caress them, until you were squirming with need._

She squirmed. Thinking quickly, she shoved her new comforter off the bed. Things could get messy.

_I hope you have new batteries, darling. I think you would feel incredible if you were to slowly drag your favorite toy across your nipples. I'm sure they're already nice and hard for me. If they're not, then the vibrations across them should do the trick. And if they are, said vibrations will just make you moan even more._

Of course, her nipples _were_ already rock hard. She moaned.

_Are you dripping for me yet, my Swan? Touch yourself and tell me._

"Yes," she whispered.

_I'm sure that right now, you would feel incredible if you were to hold your vibrator against your aching clit, but I have a much better idea. I want you to turn it off and take advantage of its phallic shape. While I promise you that it's nothing compared to the real thing, I still think you should slowly push it into your sweet pussy. Do that for me, love._

She didn't typically use her vibrator for penetration, but this letter was too hot to disobey, at least this late in the game. She did as he instructed, groaning with pleasure. She briefly thought that she might want to invest in a more substantial toy, before remembering that she was days away from the real thing.

_I want you to use one hand to fuck yourself with your toy, and the other to play with whatever you'd like: your breasts or your clit. All that matters is that you let yourself go and feel intense pleasure knowing that, because you are fucking yourself for me, I'm really the one who's fucking you._

It took her less than a few minutes to come so hard that she knew she'd be doing laundry later that day.

As she finally came down from her intense high, her hips still twitching and her limbs trembling, she realized that yes, it had really been _him_ fucking her. Somehow, even without laying her down on the bed and exploring her for himself, he'd figured out just how her body worked. She knew that some of it was due to what she'd told him in _her_ explicit letters, describing the things she liked to do to herself, or have done to her. But that couldn't be all of it; often she would be surprised at some of the suggestions he'd made, but they'd always been extremely pleasurable.

When her breathing finally returned to normal, she finished reading the letter.

_I hope that you've enjoyed that, love. I desperately wish that I were there to really make it a reality for you (me being the one pleasuring you, I mean). I've taken quite the risk writing this to you; it's bad form to sport an erection at work, so I'll be refusing to leave my office until I can get thoughts of you writhing naked on your bed out of my mind._

_ Merry Christmas, my dear Swan. I cannot predict very much about what I'll be doing while you read this; I can only promise you that I will be trying desperately to find a way to watch _It's a Wonderful Life_ while drinking an Old Fashioned. I will not begrudge you if you make other plans, and I'll obviously be happy to watch the film and drink with you, together, when I return._

_Always yours,  
__Your Captain_

_My dear Captain,_

_ I spent last night watching _Home Alone_ and drinking wine; I fully intend to watch _It's a Wonderful Life_ while drinking an Old Fashioned tonight. When we're together, we can watch and drink something else._

_ I also very, very much enjoyed both of your gifts. Thank you so much for the necklace. It's really beautiful. And, of course, I'm always thankful for a very satisfying fuck. How you could possibly know what will feel so good when you've never touched me is something I'll never understand. But I definitely appreciate it._

_ I hope that you like your gift (go open it or I'm about to spoil it for you!). I know how you hate that it's not socially acceptable for guys to wear jewelry, so I made sure to find a necklace that's long enough that you could tuck it into your shirt. And if people see the chain, you can just lie and says it's a cross or something. Skull and crossbones … cross … close enough. A captain who's such a fan of pirates must be a pirate captain, after all._

_ My parting gift to you won't be as amazing as your second gift to me, if only because, by the time you're reading this, we'll be together. But I just want you to imagine, for a moment, what it would have felt like if I'd had you inside me instead of my much-too-small vibrator. Because that's definitely what I was imagining. Is it January 1st yet?_

_Have a wonderful Christmas (hope you had a wonderful Christmas),  
__Your Princess_

* * *

**This was actually supposed to be two chapters (the first ending with Emma telling Mary Margaret about Ruby and Victor), but the chapter with the Captain's Christmas letter would have been pretty short. I opted to merge them together. I'm going to stay true to my word, though, and have 19 parts to this story, so I'm working on an epilogue.**

**I'd love to know what people think of the story! If you haven't reviewed before, let me know what you're thinking! (If you have reviewed before, thaaaaaaank yooooooou!)**


	13. Chapter 13

Mary Margaret called around noon the next day to say that she and David were on their way back to Boston. "We'll be home and settled in late tonight. Do you want to go out tomorrow?"

"Can't. I'm doing my annual Goodwill trip Monday after work, and even though I have a tiny apartment, I've got a lot of crap to sort through before the weekend's over. You're welcome to come over and help if you want."

"Maybe Sunday. I'll call you?"

"Sounds good. Love you, sis."

"Love you, too."

While she ate lunch, she opened her letter.

_My dear Swan,_

_ Today is Boxing Day here in the United Kingdom. Essentially, it's Black Friday, but after Christmas instead of after Thanksgiving, and there's lots of football to watch (real football, obviously; I suppose I've just revealed that I'm not a bloody Yankee). Except it's not really Boxing Day. It's still December 23rd, and I am still in my office, desperate to stay home in Boston with you. It's been a long time since I moved to Boston from London, for college and subsequently law school, but it's home now, forever and always._

_ Now that Christmas is over, I can tell you about the time I got dumped on Christmas. When I started law school, a prominent Scottish businessman took an interest in my budding career. Unfortunately, one of my greatest regrets is that, young fool that I was, I took an interest in his wife._

_ The affair lasted about a year, and culminated with her putting me up in a lavish apartment. I was, for lack of a better description, extremely imprudent, and I switched from maritime law to family law under the assumption that I could graduate, pass the bar, facilitate her divorce, and marry her myself. She'd been curious about my change in legal interests, but I lied and claimed that I simply found family law much more fascinating than maritime law. Which isn't entirely untrue, but obviously, that wasn't the real reason for my change in focus._

_ On Christmas Day, I finally told her the truth. It was my Christmas gift to her—that I was going to free her from her unhappy marriage. She was shocked; she had never seen our relationship as more than a dalliance. She had no desire to leave her husband at all, and never planned to. Worse, I learned that her husband had been aware of our relationship from the start; in fact, his wife's sexual interest in me was one of the reasons he had taken me under his wing._

_ To her credit, I suppose, I don't think she ever meant to mislead me. She'd never seemed terribly worried about getting caught (after all, her husband knew already), and she never spoke about the future. I feel like a fool; I should have noticed. Or at least, I should have waited until the lease on the apartment was up for renewal before taking such a risk._

_ And that's why I ended up living on my boat for a few months (I'm sure you know what the Boston rental market is like). It's also why I don't like sailing in the cold; I love my boat, but it's more difficult to crank up the heat than it is in an apartment. You'll have to forgive me for not taking you out on the water until spring arrives. (This is New England, so probably May? June if we're lucky? But I digress.)_

_ Christmas is a reminder of my own childish mistakes. Knowing that I will spend this already difficult holiday dealing with my father and his impending death makes me dread it even more than I usually do. I have not even left yet, and I'm already longing to come home._

_Yours more than ever,  
__Your Captain_

Whoa. This was a lot to take in.

Up until now, information about themselves had been reasonably superficial. She felt as if she knew him well enough: she knew he worked in a legal profession, and she knew about his boat. She knew he loved brunch, and that his liquor of choice was rum, but that he was always partial to fine scotch whiskey. He loved classic films, especially Hitchcock films (which is why they'd planned to watch _It's a Wonderful Life),_ and he also loved _Hook_ and Disney's _Peter Pan _(which is why she'd gotten him a pirate-y necklace).

She knew that he loved reading fiction every night before falling asleep, but that occasionally a book would draw him in, and before he knew it, it was five in the morning and he was five pages from the end. She knew that he hadn't started eating sushi until he moved to the Boston, and that he'd tried unagi because of the episode of _Friends_, and it was now his favorite roll. She'd known that he'd just purchased a new car for the first time, and that a flight home for him was six hours.

It was six hours because he was in _London._

He didn't just work in a legal profession; he was a _lawyer._ Family law.

His last relationship had been an affair with a married woman, and had resulted in him being homeless.

This was personal. Her heart skipped a beat; he was getting ready to really _meet_ her. He really meant it.

She'd already admitted to him in an earlier letter that she'd been in foster care as a child. She'd considered rewriting it or throwing it out entirely. But if he was able to admit this sort of personal stuff to her, then she could do the same for him.

_My dear Captain,_

_I can understand picking your career for personal reasons. My history in foster care is why I'm actually a social worker. I feel like it's the least I can do, you know? Help kids the way I wished I could be helped._

_Obviously, it can be really difficult emotionally. Whenever a placement falls through, or a kid runs away, or a foster family has to call it quits, it really feels like a personal failure. I know it's not—at least, logically, I know it's not—but it's still so hard. But it's the personal investment that makes it worth getting up in the morning._

_That break-up sounds really horrible. To be honest, I really doubt that she _didn't_ know you were in deep. I mean, you're obviously a romantic. I've never even spoken to you face to face, but it's just plain obvious. For her not to have known, I think she would have had to be actively in denial._

_ My last break-up was actually … a week after you started leaving me notes. It was really a long time coming, so don't feel bad (or proud!) that you ended my previous relationship. You really didn't, although you definitely provided a little bit of a push. I was reading your note, which asked me if I was single or not, and I kept thinking that I really wished I was. So … well, I made that happen._

_ He wasn't a bad guy, but I was not the right person for him. He had all these ideas about what his significant other would be like, and it didn't seem to occur to him that, if I didn't match those ideas, maybe we shouldn't be dating. Like, he wanted me to find a less demanding job, move into his house in the suburbs, give up all my interests he didn't like, and pick up all of his. He routinely criticized my personal taste; he hated my doormat, for example. And he'd talk about the future like I'd already agreed to marry him and change everything about myself._

_ I don't know why I stayed with him as long as I did, when he made me so miserable. I'm not miserable anymore, that's for sure._

_Seriously missing you,  
__Your Princess_

After she finished her letter, her phone began to sing Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf."

"Hey, Ruby. Or is this Victor?" She laughed at her own joke.

"Did you tell _everyone?"_ Ruby asked angrily.

"No, just Mary Margaret."

"Well, everyone knows _now,"_ her friend huffed.

"Will you tell me what happened? _Please?_ Come on, it can't be weirder than my situation."

"We didn't want anyone to know because we didn't want things to get awkward. It's really nothing."

"Are you sure it's nothing?" Emma was unused to being the one to counsel her friends about relationship stuff; it was weird being on the other side. But she'd had Tink and Mary Margaret play therapist to her so many times, she knew plenty of the scripts. "If it were nothing, would you guys have kept it a secret?"

"I mean … I guess you're right. Probably not."

"So how did it happen?"

"Well, when we went out right before Thanksgiving, we were the last two at the bar after you guys left. I was complaining about my last bad date, and Victor was saying that he hadn't even had a date in a while. We got to talking and we were both saying how we really wished that we could just find someone we connected with emotionally who could also blow our minds in bed. And, well, we'd both been drinking, so …"

"Yeah, that sounds like a recipe for a hook-up," Emma acknowledged. "I've gotta ask, though …" She trailed off, unsure how to ask her next question, but pretty sure Ruby could figure out what she wanted to ask.

"Every bit as good as you'd think," Ruby confirmed.

"Yeah?"

"Yep. I don't want to veer into TMI territory, but we were doing positions I'd never even thought possible." Emma's eyes widened; from Ruby, that was pretty unbelievable. "It was seriously amazing."

"I take it he feels the same way?"

"Well, I hope so. Afterwards, we weren't sure what to do. Like, this was a huge disaster—like you said, it felt like we'd broken a lot of rules, and not in a good way—but it was _so_ good, it felt really shitty saying that it was a one-time thing. I ended up going home without us making any sort of decision about it."

"How many times has this happened since?"

"Well, after he came back after Thanksgiving, we met to talk about it, so obviously it happened again. And pretty much any time that we hung out after that, and then before you know it, we're meeting up _just_ to go to one of our apartments to fuck for hours."

"Ruby?"

"Ugh, yeah? Sorry, I know this is ridiculous."

"No, I just wanted to ask—are you happy? Is this making you happy?"

She swore she could hear Ruby start to smile before she answered. "Yeah," she replied quietly. "Yeah, this is making me happy."

"And Victor?"

"I think so." A tiny bit of insecurity bled into Ruby's voice. "I mean, he hasn't done anything that's made me feel like this is just sex for him. It's not like he comes over and we have sex, and then he makes an awkward excuse to leave."

"Good," Emma said. "Look, if you guys are happy, then fuck everything else. Be happy."

"Sounds like you're living by your own advice," Ruby said. "By the way, everyone knows about the packing slip."

Emma sighed. No. God. Damn. Secrets. "Figures. I'm not going to look at it."

"I knew you wouldn't. You're want him to be the one to tell you. How've the letters been?"

"Pretty heavy. Oh, he's from London."

"Whoa. He's British?"

"Yeah, he'd have to be."

"Isn't Hot Guy British?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but so is Sexy Single Dad. Eyebrows is, too. We've got plenty of Englishmen in this building. Besides, you know it's not Hot Guy."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. At least it's not Leering Red Hat Guy, though!"

"Yeah." She chuckled. "Well, thanks for being honest with me about Victor. Everything will be fine, you know?"

Ruby sighed. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Anyway, I need to go take a shower. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay, hon. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Sunday, she opened her letter first thing in the morning, before Mary Margaret was due to come by to help her clean and sort and pack. She loved her annual deep clean of the apartment; it gave her an odd sense of control and fulfillment, and she always loved having a little more space in her tiny apartment for new clothes or shoes. She was definitely running out of drawer space in her dresser; one of the smaller top drawers was filled with envelopes and notes.

_My wonderful Swan,_

_ I admit that I am very, very angry right now, just thinking about my current situation. My father abandoned my family when I was quite young. I never understood why. In fact, I still don't understand; this contact is the first that he's made since then. I was raised by my mother until she died of a broken heart (or cirrhosis, more likely, but as a romantic soul, I'd like to believe it was the broken heart), at which point my older brother found me and took me in. My hands are shaking with rage as I type this. I have not forgiven my father._

_ What's more, I am unsure whether or not I want to forgive him. What sort of man am I if I cannot forgive someone for mistakes made years ago? What sort of person doesn't give a second chance to a dying man trying to make amends? But I also feel insulted; must I really be the bigger person here? I am under no obligation to forgive, especially when he's made no effort to reach out to me until now. And he is taking me away from my life here in the States, when I'm finally happy for the first time in years. My thoughts are a mess right now, love. I don't know how to feel._

_ I've spent these last several weeks being so careful when I write to you, trying to highlight my strengths and omit my faults. I'm embarrassed to reveal this incredible flaw, but I am trying to understand it. And somehow, by forcing myself to admit this insecurity to someone, especially someone I care about and whose opinion matters very much to me, I hope that I can come to terms with it._

_ I shall take a moment now, before I move on to my next letter, to remind myself that at least you are one day closer to the day I return._

_Missing you terribly, even from my desk at work,  
__Your Captain_

Emma spent several long minutes fighting a mental battle before finally penning her reply.

_My poor Captain,_

_I'd like to believe that whatever you're feeling is the right away to feel. How could you _not_ be angry with your father? But how could you not want to be the bigger person? Whatever happens, this isn't your doing or your fault. You are a good person in a terrible situation. How on earth could I possibly think less of you for telling me this?_

_ I was about to write that I wished I could say I'd been in the same position, but the truth is, I really have no idea if I wish that. You have a chance to confront your father for what he did to you and your family, or maybe to get some kind of explanation. It's been twenty-eight years and I still have no explanation. My parents abandoned me on the side of a highway in Maine. I think if I ever found out who they were, I'd probably just want to know why they couldn't bother to leave me at a hospital or a shelter, or even on someone's doorstep._

_ Obviously, I've found some semblance of a happy ending. I met my best friend my first year of high school, and ended up being adopted by her—our—parents. They have never, ever done or said anything to make me feel unwanted, but there are days I still wonder._

_ I know that this isn't some sort of personal failing of mine. I'm not the one who abandoned an infant on the shoulder of a highway in a rural area. I've dedicated my life to helping kids who're just like me. But I always have to wonder _why_. Was I not good enough? Did my parents ever even want me in the first place? My friend T—the therapist—would suggest I have trouble believing that anyone could want me._

_ Sometimes, I dream about confronting them and screaming at them for what they did to me. But I don't think I'd do that for real. I'd probably pretend that I was just some random social worker and make up some sort professional reason for having to talk to them, and just hope they wouldn't notice the resemblance and do the math. Sometimes, I'm not very brave._

_Yours if you want me,  
__Your Princess_

Emma had never, ever told anyone about the circumstances of her … well, birth. Even most of the caseworkers who'd handled her hadn't known the truth. A seven-year-old kid had found her on the side of the road and brought her to a nearby diner; the owner had quickly made the decision to report that Emma had been found at the door to the restaurant. Emma had learned the truth when, as an eighteen-year-old, she'd tracked down the owner to thank her. Mary Margaret, Leo, and Regina knew the truth only because Emma had returned home that night in shock.

And she was telling a perfect stranger.

Except he _wasn't_ a stranger. She gently touched the the swan pendant around her neck and stowed the notes away before Mary Margaret arrived.

* * *

**If I've misrepresented Boxing Day, please let me know!**

**I feel like a jerk for representing Milah like this (especially since apparently I'm not really making her that sympathetic in my other story; oops). I really like Milah; there aren't many characters on OUAT I _don't_ like. But it's just how things worked out for this story.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Content note: This chapter contains mention of character death, injury, and miscarriage.**

* * *

Monday was stressful. Emma was back at work, desperately hoping to be finished on time so she could hurry home, pick up her rental car, and drive her donations to Goodwill. But she had no such luck; three of her kids needed immediate attention, and she had two new cases. By the time she'd finished at work, she'd extended her car reservation twice, and she still almost didn't return it on time.

It was almost nine o'clock, which meant that if she wanted to work out, she needed to go _immediately._ She'd been pretty lazy over Christmas, partially as a holiday treat, and partially because she had been moping over the Captain's absence. It was time to stop moping, though; she hurried upstairs to change and managed to get in a solid workout before the fitness center closed for the night. But that meant it was nearly eleven at night before she finally got to her letter.

_My Swan,_

_ Words cannot express how badly I do not want to get on this damn plane tonight. I don't want to see my father. I don't want to assist in putting his affairs in order. I don't want to deal with any of this. I just want to talk to you. Or write to you. But really, talk to you._

_ I would tell you everything about me._

_I would tell you that some years ago, I was in an accident, and I sustained major injuries to one of my hands. An expert surgeon, years of physical therapy, and a great deal of expensive topical creams have all provided me with as much range of motion, dexterity, and lack of scarring I could have possibly expected after such a serious injury. I was lucky to have kept my hand._

_ It's why my letters to you have all been typed. While I've trained my right hand to be dominant, I'm much more comfortable with a keyboard. Typing has the added benefit of providing me with regular exercise of my left fingers._

_ I could have told you this earlier, but I was nervous that providing you with this information would result in you suspiciously eyeing the left hand of every man in our building. I told myself that I would tell you whenever I was ready for you to know who I was, and then I never felt ready._

_ Well, love, I'm telling you now._

_ It's vexing that I'm still so insecure about this trait of mine. It's been years since the accident, and while I'm not one to brag about sexual exploits, nor do I wish to alienate you by discussing them, my minor disability has never been a hindrance of my sex life. And yet I always wonder if it's distracting, or perhaps if some women only went to bed with me out of pity. This is so foolish. I know you would never care. I don't know why it bothers me so much._

_Missing you always,  
__Your Captain_

_My Captain_

_ Well, the good news for you is that I have never noticed anyone in the building with scars on their left hand. I hope you're okay with me being really unobservant, apparently._

_ To be honest, when I got your first note, I wondered if you were my ex trying to put the spark back into the relationship. I assumed that was why the note was typed, because I'd recognize his handwriting. Once I figured out that you weren't him (something that's _really_ good, by the way), I kind of forgot to wonder about the notes being typed._

_ All I can say about your hand at this point? I'm sorry that such a thing happened to you. You must have been scared and devastated when the injury first occurred, and even if you knew that a full recovery was a longshot, you must have still hoped for it. I can promise you that I won't care about scars. Like, I won't really even think about it either way._

_ I suppose if you want to trade traumas …_

_ I almost had to drop out of college when my first boyfriend dumped me. I'm so embarrassed now. I want to go back in time and find my twenty-year-old self and just shake some sense into her._

_ My boyfriend just totally swept me off my feet. He was a rich city kid, who'd gone to private school and all that fancy shit. He just said all the right things that I needed to hear—I was beautiful, I was perfect, he wanted to do all sorts of crazy sex things to me._

_It was surreal after being in the foster system. No one ever treated me like I was beautiful or desirable. So I fell hard. You know, like ya do._

_But within a few months, it was just this epic struggle to hold onto him. He was bored of our sex life unless I tried more and more new things, things I wasn't always comfortable with, and things that weren't always pleasurable for me. He stopped wanting to spend time with me unless I made it extremely convenient. I felt like I was always auditioning for him, always trying to convince him that he should stay with me. When he finally broke things off, he said all sorts of nasty things about how foster care had made me weird and messed me up sexually, and how it was okay for him to mess around with a lost girl for a bit in college, but he was expected to bring home someone more like him._

_I basically stopped eating, stopped leaving my dorm room, stopped going to class. My parents had to call the dean and arrange counseling for me. I almost went on medical leave._

_Sometimes I worry that I'm never going to be able to lose myself in a relationship again, after what happened with my college ex. I'm glad I didn't with my last ex; I was unhappy the whole time, and I'm glad I dumped him. But what I mean is, I don't want to miss my chance when it's right. I'm scared of missing out at the same time that I'm scared of even trying._

_ I'm anxious about meeting you, not because I don't _want_ to. But because I think I've already lost myself._

_Missing you so much,  
__Your Swan_

_Dearest Swan,_

_ I cannot wait to see you. Of course, I've seen you—and I know you've seen me—but the idea of seeing you, and having you _really_ see me, with recognition in your eyes, fills me with so much hope._

_I cannot wait to really spend time with you, whether it's just relaxing in one of our apartments, or walking through Boston, or sailing in the harbor. I really cannot wait to take you sailing._

_ I love my damn boat. I told you I loved _Peter Pan:_ I named her the _Jolly Roger_ in honor of Hook's pirate ship. I used to think I was the boy who never grew up, but with only one fully functioning hand, sometimes I think maybe I've been cast in a more villainous role (also, I'm an attorney, so I've got that against me as well)._

_ I knew that no matter where I went to university, I had to be on the coast so I could sail. I didn't buy the _Jolly_ until I'd moved here, but it was one of the first things I did after the semester started. I've traveled to the west coast a few times since moving to the States, and I've also spent time down in Florida. But I'm glad I chose Boston; it's incredibly European, while still maintaining the American, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on" mentality. And all the Revolutionary War history keeps me grounded._

_ I've spent a lot of time on the _Jolly_ lately—not sailing; just relaxing—thinking about you. Do you like the sea? Do you get seasick? Did you really just make a lucky guess when you nicknamed me the Captain? Your letters reveal so much about who you are, but there's so much I've yet to learn about you. And I'm looking forward to that._

_Still yours,  
__Your Captain_

_My Captain,_

_ I wish you were writing these letters in real time, in reply to mine. There's so much I've shared with you already, and so much more I want to share. I want to answer your questions and ask so many of my own._

_ I am 0% surprised about the name of your boat. Honestly, I haven't been on the water much, besides a whale watch freshman year of college. There just never were a lot of opportunities. As for your nickname, I was mostly just overly proud of myself for accidentally picking out such a good nickname for you. I'm still proud of it, actually. Damn proud._

_ Boston wasn't that much of a choice for me, although it wasn't like I didn't want to come here. I grew up all over the damn country, but I started and ended in Maine. I would have stayed there (I'm glad I didn't, for the record), but my sister was applying to colleges in Boston, and I didn't want to be separated from her, so I did, too. You may have noticed the abundance of colleges here? Maybe? Possibly? We didn't go to the same school, but we saw each other every weekend, and by the time college was wrapping up, we both refused to even consider leaving._

_ My sister had a better reason for staying: she got engaged right after she graduated, and my brother-in-law graduated a year ahead of us and had already settled down with a job and apartment here. I also went straight to grad school for social work, so I was going to be here for another couple years anyway. Now there's really no reason to leave: my sister is here and our parents are only a few hours away, and I've got a great group of friends. I like my job, and if that changes, there's plenty else to do here._

_ And to be honest? There's something about this apartment building … _

_Patiently waiting,  
__Your Swan_

_My darling,_

_ Okay. I have to tell you what happened. I write each letter thinking that I couldn't possibly tell you this, but I have to. You'll find out eventually anyway._

_ I told you that I was angry with my father for abandoning me, and that I was raised by my brother after my mother died. My brother was ten years older than me, but he was just a kid himself; it wasn't fair that he had to raise me. But he did the best he could, given the situation; I'd like to think that the majority of my faults were inevitable, and would have only been worse without his guidance._

_ But now I am heading back to London alone. Just me. No brother._

_ My brother was a sailor. A damn good sailor. He couldn't afford his own boat for a long time, and so when I would beg him to take me sailing, we'd end up on a tall ship—those ships that take tourists— and he would pay a little extra to have the crew teach me a few things. When I got older, we pooled some of our savings together and got a small sailboat, and we'd take it out whenever we could._

_ You might be able to guess where this story is heading. When I was sixteen and Liam was twenty-six, we were sailing in moderately bad weather; it was manageable enough that we could have kept sailing, but dismal enough that it wasn't really enjoyable. A fog rolled in suddenly enough that we got stuck out on the water with poor visibility, so we immediately began sailing back._

_ Another boat hit us. It was bad enough that it was crewed by a group of university students who had very little sailing experience. It was worse that they were drunk. And, of course, the worst part of all was that my brother drowned. I tried to save him; my hand got stuck between the two boats._

_ It took a while to reach a settlement; the university students came from wealthy families, and their attorneys argued that we shouldn't have been on the water, that Liam was drunk, that I was too young and inexperienced. But it's hard to make those arguments when _they_ shouldn't have been on the water, when _they_ were drunk, when _they_ were too inexperienced._

_ I recovered—as well as I possibly could—from the accident and lived with a second cousin while I finished school. I came to the States for university and law school on scholarships and on the rest of the money I got from the settlement._

_ I don't talk about what happened much. Most of the time, if someone asks me about my hand, I just say that I injured it in a traumatic accident and leave it at that. It's not that I think people will blame me for his death, even if I do still feel guilty for not being able to save him. It's that I don't want pity; I don't want to be that tragic figure._

_Sometimes, I think Liam must be ashamed of me, not only for my refusal to talk about what happened to him, but also my choice of career. I wanted to study maritime law for _him._ In his memory. And instead, I chose family law for a woman who never planned on having a future with me. It's not that I dislike my field; on the contrary, it's fulfilling in a way that maritime law never would have been for me. But like I said, I let my brother down. I couldn't save him from death, and I've no way to honor his memory. And he _raised_ me. He deserves better._

_And now I have to go face our father, who abandoned both of us and left Liam to be a father figure when he was barely sixteen. None of this is fair._

_I'm sorry to have unloaded this all on you. I've no more secrets, to be honest. Just these. And on that cheery note, I suppose I'll end this letter._

_Desperate to see you,  
__Your Captain_

It took her an hour of pacing, mentally (and sometimes verbally) hashing out the pros and cons, before she finally sat down and wrote down something she promised herself she would never tell anyone.

_My Captain,_

_ Okay, so I didn't lie earlier about my college break up. But I wasn't telling you everything._

_ My college ex would have dumped me at some point, but the reason why the break-up was even harder was because he did it after we found out I was pregnant. It wasn't the only reason he dumped me, but it was sort of the catalyst. He thought I'd gotten pregnant on purpose to trap him, and said I was just another orphan who couldn't break free from her upbringing. He said that my birth parents were probably dumb college kids who couldn't handle a baby, and I was doing the same thing they did to me._

_ After the break-up, I miscarried. I was maybe eight weeks or so when it happened, and I bled and cramped for days. I knew I wasn't ready to be a mother—even now, I know I _definitely_ wasn't ready. But it was overwhelming. I know miscarriage is common, but at the time, I just felt like a failure._

_ I never told him that I miscarried. It happened after he dumped me; he still thinks that I terminated the pregnancy. I'm not sure if I would have; I definitely wouldn't have raised the baby if I'd had it, but I don't know if I could have handled the additional stigma of trying to get through college while pregnant._

_ It was excruciating and horrific, and at the time, I thought that the whole combination of events—getting pregnant, getting dumped and having my heart broken, and then miscarrying—was probably the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. It's still my most painful set of memories, and I'm still stunned that I managed to live through it all. But there are some silver linings. The pregnancy ended what was an incredibly unhealthy, damaging relationship. And the miscarriage saved me from having to make a decision about what to do. It also taught me a lot about birth control, but that's beside the point._

_ I know that this isn't the same thing as losing your brother in that terrible accident. But we all have scars. We all have traumas. It's okay._

_Still yours,  
__Your Swan_

* * *

**I don't actually dislike Neal all _that_ much as a character; he's flawed just like every other OUAT character. But he's darn easy to use for plot stuff like this!**

**And because I know it's driving everyone a little nuts, and it won't actually be revealed in the story: Eyebrows is Will Scarlet!**


	15. Chapter 15

On New Year's Eve, Emma woke up buzzing with excitement. Just one more day.

She was also excited because New Year's was her favorite holiday. It always felt like a fresh start, a clean slate. Plus, there would be booze.

She worked her half-day, swamped with cases due to the number of people still on holiday vacation. She rushed through the grocery and liquor stores on her way home, getting in and out quickly enough that she was home earlier than she'd expected. She had one last quick workout at the fitness center before showering and doing her final load of laundry.

It was a little surprising that the laundry room was completely empty again, as it had been on Christmas. Did no one else do one last load of laundry, so they could start the new year with all clean clothing? She was, however, relieved that an empty laundry room meant she wouldn't run into Hot Guy. Ever since he asked her out, she'd felt embarrassed every time she'd bumped into him.

By the time she'd finished putting away her clean clothes, getting dressed, and doing her hair and makeup, Mary Margaret and David texted her to let her know they were almost at her place. She groaned; she hadn't even gotten started on setting up or making appetizers. There was no way she was going to have time to read the last letter from the Captain before everyone showed up.

"Happy New Year's Eve!" Mary Margaret said warmly as she came through the door. "Oh, the place looks great!"

"Thanks," Emma replied, hugging her, and then turning to hug David. "Especially since you're responsible for, like, half of it."

"Well, it wasn't _that_ bad," her sister replied, setting some canvas grocery bags down on the counter. "Now, what do you need help with?"

Mary Margaret took over the crostini while Emma worked on the fried macaroni and cheese balls. David gamely finished setting up the makeshift bar for her, excitedly commenting on the new wine glasses, and making the appropriate derogatory comments about the cocktail set from Walsh, still in its packaging. Tink arrived next, with an extra bottle of wine and a massive champagne-flavored cake, which was her specialty.

No one was surprised when Ruby and Victor arrived together; they both just blushed faintly at all of their friends' grins. "Hey!" Victor said immediately. "Do you know who I just saw in the elevator?"

"Who?"

"Pretty Boy. With a rolling suitcase!"

"So?" Emma wasn't sure where Victor was going with this information.

"Emma, he's _back_. From a _trip._" Ruby groaned when Emma shook her head in confusion.

"Maybe the Captain is home early," Tink interjected calmly as she finished frosting the cake.

"Oh." Her face became very warm. "Maybe."

"Have you been writing him letters?" David asked.

"I have," she admitted.

"You should go put them out now," Victor suggested. "Maybe he'll come by and pick them up, and we can _all_ meet him."

"Yeah, you totally should," Ruby agreed.

"I don't think I want the first time meeting him to be the first time _you're_ all meeting him, too," Emma said warily. But she grabbed her stack of replies, each stuffed into a dated envelope, as well as his Christmas gift, and shoved them under the doormat as well as she could. Her friends all beamed; they'd never actually gotten to see any sort of note exchange before, and this was probably going to be the last one.

"It's like graduation," Victor said, before humming some bars of "Pomp and Circumstance."

"So I take it he didn't say who he was in his last letter," David commented. "I mean, if he had, you wouldn't seem so unsure about whether or not it's Pretty Boy."

"I didn't have time to read the last one," she said sheepishly, preparing herself for the reaction she knew she'd get.

She got it. "Emma!" Mary Margaret cried. "Go read it now!"

"Where is it?" Ruby asked. "I'll go get it."

"I would have read it first thing today!" Victor said. "Are you nuts?"

"I'm _not_ going to read it right now," Emma replied firmly. "We're all going to have a nice time tonight, and _then_ you're all going to go home, and _then_ I'm going to read it, and _then_ I'm going to go to bed."

"But you put all your other replies out already," Ruby pointed out. "You need to write the last one!"

"If he really is back already, he'll know that no response to the last one means I haven't read it yet," Emma reminded her gently. "Look, guys, he and I have a system, it works, and I'm still not going to read anything while you're here, staring at me."

"What if we're not staring at you?" Victor asked, averting his gaze. She replied by lightly smacking his shoulder.

Fortunately, they dropped the subject after that, and the festivities began. They put on Disney movies while they drank and talked. Tink showed off photos from her visit home, and Ruby brought some blueprints and renderings of the expanded layout for the diner. Victor sheepishly asked if he could have the cocktail set Walsh had given her, and David and Mary Margaret got everyone started on a particularly epic round of Cards Against Humanity.

By the time the clock struck midnight, and plenty of other tenants in the building could be heard shouting, everyone was happily drunk, especially Emma. She hadn't been happily drunk in a long time, and since she had mostly stopped drinking since breaking up with Walsh, her tolerance was at an all time low. Victor, ever the responsible physician, kept refilling her water glass for her throughout the night, which had the added effect of making her run to the bathroom practically every twenty minutes.

When Tink, the first to leave, opened the door, she let out an excited squeal. "Emma! He's back!"

"How do you know?" Mary Margaret asked, as she and Ruby rushed to the door. Emma just stood at the breakfast bar, swaying a bit and feeling suddenly extremely nervous.

"The letters are gone!" Tink pointed out. Five pairs of eyes immediately zeroed in on Emma.

"Go home," she whined. "I will text you all tomorrow, but you _have_ to go home." And they finally, _finally_ did.

She sat on her bed (a little too drunk to stay upright at the breakfast bar) and took some deep breaths. This was really happening. He was _back._ She was going to read the last letter. Maybe he'd even come by tonight, instead of tomorrow, like he'd originally planned. She was finally going to actually _meet_ him. She was practically nauseous from nerves, and her hands trembled as she finally pulled the last letter out to read.

_Swan,_

_ About two months ago, my friend J came over for a drink and he rode the elevator with you. He promptly dared me to ask you out, and I've always loved a challenge._

What?

She reread the first lines again. This couldn't be happening.

It had been a dare? She was a _challenge?_

She reread those lines again, but they still said the same thing. No affectionate opening _(My dearest Swan, my Princess, my darling)._ Just her last name, and a little story about how _he had been dared to ask her out_ and he'd accepted because he_ loves a challenge._

Was this really happening?

She had just spent the last two months falling for him. She'd told him that she considered what they had to be a _relationship. _She'd shared sexual fantasies with him and even _admitted_ to him when she'd gotten off to his letters. She'd turned down a date with _Hot Guy_ for him.

And it was worse than that. She'd just handed over a stack of letters detailing her adoption and her break-ups, her abandonment and her miscarriage. Almost no one knew about either of those last two, even most of her friends. And she'd told _him._

She was shaking so violently, she couldn't even see the writing in the letter clearly anymore. Maybe he hadn't even gone to London. He could have lied about that. He could have lied about his profession, about his boat, about his interests. She'd been conversing with a perfect stranger for two months and she had no way to know if anything he'd told her was true.

And there was nothing she could do about it. Her tears finally spilled down her cheeks. She'd have to wait for him to come by, if he even _planned_ to. If he hadn't just been leading her on the whole time, getting her excited about a meeting that would never happen. She hadn't felt this helpless since she'd gone to university health services, bleeding uncontrollably, only to find out that the baby she was already sure she didn't want hadn't really wanted _her_ either.

Maybe she could go downstairs and ask the doorman to describe the guy who'd left the notes and the gift at the front desk. If only she'd saved the packaging from the gift; she might have been able to figure out his real name, or maybe even just get his apartment number.

Except she still had the packing slip. _She had the packing slip._ It was still in her nightstand drawer, where she'd left it. Thank god she'd kept it.

The necklace had been purchased by Killian Jones, Apartment 305.

Killian Jones?

_Killian_ Jones?

_Hot Guy?_

Hell no. He'd asked her out. A month ago. Why would he ask her out?

She felt rage building. It had happened just after the last time she'd pressured him into meeting her. She had been pestering him about how he should just meet her already, and implying that she might eventually lose interest if he didn't. And so he'd responded by asking her out when she couldn't _possibly_ have known who he was. It had been a damn _test._ He hadn't seemed too upset about the rejection because _he knew she was rejecting him _for_ him._

She knew that she wasn't very imposing, in a mini dress and tights without any shoes, with her eye make-up all over her face, and her body shaking visibly from the combination of anger, binge drinking, and a very cold hallway. But she didn't care. She marched down the hallway and banged violently on the door of apartment 305. It opened a few moments later.

Hot Guy—Killian Jones—stood in the doorway wearing flannel bottoms, a thin gray T-shirt, and the pirate necklace she'd given the Captain for Christmas. He had noticeable bags under his eyes, and his hair was sticking up in a few directions.

His expression went from half-asleep and irritated to surprised and confused, and then to delighted. "Swan," he said, his voice hoarse but happy.

"I was a _dare?" _She was trying to keep her voice low, knowing that some people were sleeping at one o'clock in the morning, even on New Year's. But it was _so _hard not to scream at him. "All of this was a _dare?" _She crumpled up the packing slip she was still carrying and threw it at him.

"No, wait, what are you—"

"You are _horrible,"_ she continued. "I should _never_ have answered your stupid letters! This whole time, I was telling you all these things, and you were just _fucking_ with me!"

"No, that's not true!"

"Then why did you ask me out?" she asked angrily. "Last month, in the laundry room? Was that going to be your ultimate 'I told you so?' So you could 'prove' that I would have said no if you hadn't left the notes? So you could 'prove' that you really had me wrapped around your little finger?"

"I made a _mistake,"_ he said, trying to interrupt.

_"This_ was a mistake," she insisted angrily. She reached up to take off her necklace, and became very frustrated when it didn't just pull right off. It _always_ did in the movies! And then she couldn't manage the clasp.

"Swan, please don't," he said quietly, realizing what she was doing. She finally gave up and pulled it over her head, relieved that the chain was long enough. She threw it at him, but she missed and it went flying behind him into his apartment.

"I _hate_ you_," _she said, her voice cracking from the strain she'd been putting on it. "Don't _ever_ talk to me again." And she stomped back to her apartment, where she promptly cried herself to sleep.

* * *

**Yay, they finally met! You can throw things at me if you need to ... like roses ... or tomatoes, ya know, whatever's handy.**


	16. Chapter 16

Emma woke up mid-morning on New Year's Day with a raging hangover, made worse by her ringing phone. She let it go to voicemail; she could feel how sore her throat was from _something. _She couldn't quite remember. What had happened last night? Besides, obviously, drinking enough to get the worst hangover she'd had since college.

She checked her phone several minutes later, when she finally willed herself to get out of bed. Strangely enough, her necklace wasn't next to her cell on the nightstand, even though that's where she always left it. She quickly checked around the floor, in case she knocked it off; she even checked the breakfast bar and her dresser. It was nowhere to be found. What had happened to it?

Her phone beeped yet again as she searched, demanding her attention. She had several texts, and a missed call from Ruby.

_Hey, sis! Just checking in! Has he come by yet?!_

_ Emma, PLEASE tell me what's going on! Victor and I are dying!_

_ Has he come by yet? Who won the bet?_

Moments later, another text from Ruby. _The reason you're not answering had better be because you're busy fucking Pretty Boy. Or Sexy Single Dad! I hope it's SSD._

Right. The Captain was supposed to come by today so they could meet for real. But Ruby was wrong; he _wasn't_ Pretty Boy, or Sexy Single Dad.

She groaned unhappily as all of the events from the previous night came floating back. The last letter, saying it had been a dare. The packing slip. Hot Guy. _Killian._

She vaguely recalled throwing things at him. That's probably where her necklace was. The packing slip was gone, too; it wasn't in the drawer, and it wasn't on the floor anywhere.

The damn letter had gotten crumpled up in her sheets; she must have left it on her bed after she'd read it, and then accidentally slept with it there. She pried it free from her bedlinens.

One letter had changed _so_ much in such a short amount of time. Two months down the toilet because of one short paragraph. She sighed.

She was surprised that she didn't feel that angry anymore. Used, hurt, and embarrassed? Yes, but also just very, very _sad._ Even if it had all been an illusion, it had been a wonderful one. She'd essentially woken up from a really good dream.

Another text message from Tink prompted her to send everyone the same uninformative text. _I will let you guys know what happened later, so please STOP texting me!_ It was going to be hard to explain, but she knew that her friends would understand. They wouldn't judge her. They wouldn't make her feel like an idiot for trusting someone with less-than-stellar intentions.

She sighed. She needed some coffee.

As her Keurig warmed up, there was a knock on the door. She froze, as though whoever it was could see her, but didn't move to open the door. No one ever knocked on her door; even on the very rare occasions that a neighbor made a noise complaint, she got a phone call from the front desk.

Another knock—louder, without being belligerent. And then, "Swan?" Her heart sank: it was _him._ She quietly began making her coffee, hoping he couldn't hear the machine. "Swan, I'm sorry. I just want to talk." She very, very quietly fetched the sugar and a spoon. "Love, I can hear the Keurig." She froze, glaring at the coffee maker for giving her away.

The seconds ticked by. After about a minute, when she was feeling extremely foolish standing motionless in her kitchen, holding a spoon, he finally said, "Okay. I'll go. But I still want to talk. I'm going to go back to my apartment and stay there and wait for you until you're ready. Okay?"

Finally, she heard his footsteps moving away from the door. She slowly relaxed and stirred sugar into her coffee.

She wanted to talk to him. Not about what was happening, or what had happened last night. She wanted to hit a rewind button, and go back to the time when she didn't know who he was, or that he'd used her. She wanted to go back to that time she was blissfully ignorant.

She wanted to burn that last letter and pretend it had never happened.

She glanced over to where she'd left it on the breakfast bar. It was quite long; much longer than the first paragraph she'd read. Why hadn't she read all of it?

_Swan,_

_ About two months ago, my friend J came over for a drink and he rode the elevator with you. He promptly dared me to ask you out, and I've always loved a challenge._

_That_ was why she hadn't read all of it. The words stung, just like they had last night; she felt her chest tighten and her eyes prick with rising tears. She put the letter down again and took a deep breath.

There was more to the letter, though. Maybe it wasn't as bad. It _couldn't_ be as bad, right?

_ I am eternally grateful that my insufferably obnoxious friend gave me the push I needed to finally try to talk to you. As I've told you already, I had been apprehensive about approaching you, not wanting to hurt you by being closed off, or turning things into a one-night stand. His dare forced me to find a way to talk to you and get to know you, a way I'd been trying to find for months._

_ These past two months have been more wonderful than I ever could have imagined. And I don't just mean that we maintained contact, or that we've gotten to know each other so well. I don't just mean that we've been essentially dating, and even having what I firmly believe amounts to a healthy sex life._

_ I mean that I have fallen hopelessly in love with you. It's been years since the last time I was in love with anyone, and even now, I question how much of that was love, and how much was just infatuation with a woman who knew she was using me. But this, what I feel, is certainly, truly love._

_ I need to know how you feel. I know how impossible it might be that you might feel the same way, but I'd rather risk losing what we have if it means gaining something even more incredible. I cannot keep doing this, exchanging letters back and forth, when I desperately want to hold you in my arms and kiss you madly and tell you how happy I am that you're in my life._

_ And now I have to leave for London, and spend several days unable to run up to your door and profess my feelings for you. But, my love, I cannot wait any longer. I have to tell you, before I leave, so I have to do it here, on paper, instead of speaking the words aloud in front of you._

_ I love you._

_ Tomorrow (for you; the distant future, for me) I shall come to your door and finally show you who I am. I can only hope that our first true meeting is the opposite of all of the nightmares I've had about it._

_Love,  
__With love,  
__With all my love,  
__Thank god I can finally close a letter like this,  
__Your Captain_

"Fuck." She pressed her face down onto the counter for a few moments. "Fuck."

She pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, unable to spend any time worrying about an outfit, grabbed her keys in one hand and her unfinished coffee in the other, and walked back down the hall to 305.

Hot Guy—no, the Captain—no, _Killian_ opened the door soon after she knocked. She wasn't entirely sure he was in the same clothes as the night before, mostly because she couldn't really recall. But either way, he looked as though he'd only recently gotten up (probably right before he came and knocked), and he also looked incredibly sleep-deprived. He looked simultaneously relieved and nervous; he probably wasn't sure if she was coming to yell at him (again) or if she'd changed her mind so easily. Not that she'd _completely_ changed her mind. It wasn't that simple.

"Can we talk?" she asked quietly.

"Of course." He gestured to invite her into his apartment. She tried not to let on how surprised she was by how _nice_ it was; she shouldn't have been surprised that a lawyer would be able to afford one of the larger units (that is, not a studio like she had). Nor should she have been surprised that he had nicer decor and furniture—furniture that matched; furniture that she thought looked nice; furniture that Walsh would have scoffed at for being "too generic."

He silently invited her to sit at the table in the small dining alcove next to the kitchen. He had his own mug of coffee sitting on the table already, and he gripped it anxiously as he took his own seat.

It took a few moments for her to realize he was waiting for her to talk first.

"Is everything you've said true?" she asked. "I mean, have you ever lied to me?"

"I have not lied to you," he said softly and earnestly. "I'm Killian Jones. I'm an attorney in family law. I have a yacht called the _Jolly Roger._ I just got home last night from London."

"Okay," she said, cutting him off. He could probably go on for hours, listing all the little bits and pieces he'd told her about his life, and she could tell he was being truthful. "Why did you ask me out last month?"

He sighed heavily. At first, she thought he was annoyed, and that he'd defensively suggest she was overreacting. But he reached up and scratched behind his ear, and when he finally met her gaze, shame was written all over his face.

"I didn't plan it. I was still thinking about what you'd said about wanting to meet, and then of course, shortly after reading your letter, I had a real opportunity to talk to you. It was a spur of the moment decision. I thought maybe, if you said yes, I would tell you. But when you said no, and then you told me why—that is, later, in your letter—I was …" He sighed heavily. "When you said you thought of what we had as a relationship, I was … I was just so happy. I didn't want to ruin it by telling you then. I mean, you were telling me that you'd chosen me over some other guy, and I didn't know how you'd react … it was a mistake. I made a mistake."

She could understand it: he would have been obsessing over the possibility of her ending their relationship (even if they hadn't put a name to it yet) because of his hesitance about meeting. He would have randomly bumped into her and realized he had a chance to talk to her. He would have made a split-second decision, with no time to think anything through.

He stared into his coffee. "I honestly suspected you might be upset, and think I was trying to test you. I thought about giving you my phone number, or my email or something so we could stay in touch while I was in England. But I didn't want … _this_ to happen. And I wanted to be able to explain myself properly."

"It's hard to stay angry when you're telling me all this stuff that's totally understandable," she mumbled before taking a sip of her coffee. He didn't reply, but she caught a hopeful look cross his face before he followed suit, lifting his own mug to his lips. "When did you get back?"

"Last night, around nine o'clock. I have to ask: how did you know I'd be back last night?"

"I didn't," she admitted. "My friends have a pool going about who you really are. When they came over last night, they saw one of the other guys heading back to his apartment with a suitcase. They convinced me that you might be back already."

"I see." He sipped his coffee before letting out a long sigh. "So, what happens now?"

She shrugged. "Honestly? I don't know. I'm still a little hurt over the whole dare thing. But I'm trying to put it in perspective."

He nodded. "I understand that."

"You're not going to try to convince me that I'm irrationally upset about it, or that I misunderstood?" she asked warily.

He shrugged. "Why?"

"Well, do you think I'm overreacting?"

"Not really. Especially combined with me asking you out last month, I'd imagine it would be hard to interpret differently. I'm also quite angry with myself for not just being a proper adult and introducing myself in the first place. Jefferson only dared me because he knew I'd been interested in talking to you, and he called me a coward."

"Maybe you should have just talked to me."

"Ironically, yes. I decided upon this fabulously circuitous method to talk to you because I was afraid that going the traditional route would be a disaster. Instead, you would have preferred the traditional route, and the circuitous method ended up hurting you immensely."

She snorted. It wasn't often anyone got to use "ironically" correctly.

"May I ask you something?" he said, after they were quiet for a few moments.

"Okay."

"How long did you know it was me?"

"Last night."

His brow furrowed. "But you had this." He stood and walked over to the kitchen counter, and returned with the packing slip. It was still wrinkled from her crumbling it into a ball and throwing it at him. "You must have known since Christmas."

She shook her head. "No. I wanted to wait until you were ready, so I didn't look. It wasn't until I read your last letter and got upset that I decided to check. I wanted to confront you."

"That was kind of you. That you wanted to wait, that is."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry for yelling at you. God, you must have been surprised."

He chuckled. "I was. Although I had a lot of emotions when I opened that door to see you with tears streaming down your face. I initially mistook them for tears of joy, though that misconception was cleared up quickly."

"Still, I'm really embarrassed. I wish I could say that it was really just that I was _that_ upset, but I was also _that_ drunk."

"You did seem rather intoxicated."

"I was. My friends were texting me this morning to ask who you were, and for a while, I couldn't even _remember_ that I already knew. I even fell asleep with your last letter stuck in my sheets because I'd left it there and forgotten about it. I had to put in some serious effort flattening it out so I could read the rest of it today."

"The rest of it?" He leaned back and gave her an odd stare. "What do you mean, read the rest of it?"

Uh-oh. "Well, I was so upset by the first paragraph—I mean, you really should take a look at the wording. You didn't even include any sort of romantic opening. Even when I was reading it today, while sober, it just … it was really upsetting."

But he was shaking his head in what seemed to be irritated disbelief. "So you didn't read practically _all_ of the letter."

She could feel herself beginning to panic. She'd been so focused on whether or not she could forgive _him_ that it had sort of slipped her mind that she'd made her own mistakes. "But I _did_ read it! I just … I was so drunk last night. I know, that's a stupid excuse. I'm so sorry I didn't read all of it then. But I _did_ read it. That's why I'm here now."

That seemed to work; his shoulders relaxed a bit. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "I don't want to get defensive right now. I forget that, even if this has been a mutual arrangement, I have had an advantage. I've known who you were from the beginning. I was the one who could decide when we'd meet. I'm even the one who decided how we'd interact." He looked like he wished he could just slip into one of the cracks in the hardwood. Too bad all the apartments had laminate flooring.

"I should have read the whole thing," she whispered, and it was her turn to stare at the table in an effort to avoid eye contact. "If I hadn't been so stupid, I would have read it and seen that obviously, it wasn't some elaborate joke."

"It wasn't," he echoed, insistently. "You're not stupid, but no, it's _not_ a joke. I meant every word. Please, love—please look at me."

She did, and for the first time since she dumped Walsh, she felt like she was having a startling, crystallizing moment where she could see everything clearly. Here she was, sitting across the table from a man whom she'd been absurdly physically attracted to since he'd moved to the building, whom she'd been terrified to talk to because she felt so out of his league. And she now knew he'd felt the same way about _her._ And because of all the letters, they'd avoided awkward first dates, or—worse—a one-night stand.

When she'd dated Walsh, she'd done it defensively. She'd constantly put the brakes on, not just because he wasn't the right person for her, but because it was just the way she reacted to any sort of relationship _stuff_. She'd resisted becoming a part of his life or letting him become a part of hers.

She'd always doubted that anyone could want her. And since Neal had broken her heart, she'd always doubted she'd ever be ready to let herself be _that_ vulnerable with another person.

She had long still stopped doubting that the Captain had wanted her. And she knew that if she read every single one of her letters to him, starting with the first and ending with the last, she would see that she wasn't just _ready_ to be vulnerable with someone: she'd already started. It was already happening.

He'd already fallen for her, and she was definitely falling for him.

"There's still one thing I don't understand," she said.

"What's that?"

"How could it be _you?"_ she asked. She should have been more careful with her tone; he flinched. "No, no. I mean, I just assumed it wouldn't be you because there was no _way_ someone as hot as you could be my secret admirer."

"Who did you think I was? You said your friends had bet going—did anyone win?"

"Yeah, one of my friends was convinced it would be you. Someone else thought you were Pretty Boy, someone else thought you were Sexy Single Dad."

He laughed. "Sexy Single Dad? You mean Robin? Darling, he's married."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. He and his wife are temporarily long distance, but he flies out to California every so often to see her."

"That's pretty long distance."

"It is. Who did you think it was?"

"You know Elderly Italian Guy?"

"You thought I was Marco?"

"No, I thought it was his Moderately Attractive Son. But I only placed a small bet because with my luck, it would have been Snob With Sideburns."

"Swan, do you know _anyone's_ names in this building?"

"No," she admitted. "How do _you?"_

"I introduce myself." He grinned. "That's how I learned your name, after all."

She felt her face flush, remembering the details of his rejected advance. "That's fair."

"Which friend won?"

"My therapist friend. Tink."

"Tink? You don't need to use weird nicknames when referring to people whose names you're familiar with."

"Oh, so you don't want me calling you Captain?" she asked with a grin; he smirked, but he also blushed. "She goes by Tinker Bell. For real." She took another sip of her coffee, which had by now gone a little too cold.

"Refill?" he asked. She nodded, and he grabbed her mug and busied himself in the kitchen with his own coffee maker. "Sugar? Milk?"

"Sugar, please." She took the opportunity to turn around in her chair and look at the apartment a little more. He had a large panoramic photograph of a sunset over a beach; she recognized the setting as the Cape. She noticed his coffee table was a bit messy, before she recognized _her letters_ were on top of it, the ones she'd left for him the night before. She also spotted some photos clustered on a side table—old photos, including one of a man who bore a strong resemblance to the one in the kitchen making her coffee.

It had to be his brother, Liam. Liam, who'd died. Liam, who'd raised him when his father had abandoned him.

"What happened?" she asked as he returned with a fresh coffee. "Thanks."

"What happened when?"

"I mean, this past week and a half."

He sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. "He passed shortly after I arrived. He wasn't really coherent by the time I got there. Thought I was Liam and said some things to me—nothing really intelligible. I sorted out the rest of his affairs and got on the first plane back to the States that I could get a ticket for. I didn't stay for the funeral."

"Are you okay?"

"I will be. I wish I could say that I was glad that I couldn't confront him, but I think I'll always be disappointed. But it wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be."

"Why's that?"

He gave her a sad smile. "I spent hours obsessing over what I might say if he tried to apologize to me, or if he seemed uncaring about what he'd put me, or my whole family through. Would I shout at him? Forgive him? Would I pretend to forgive while gritting my teeth angrily? But in the rare moments he was conscious, he wasn't even lucid. I never had to make that decision. It was somewhat of a relief."

"I understand that. Which I guess you know already," she added, alluding to her last letter to him; he nodded. "I'm still sorry that it happened." She reached over and took his hand.

As she did so, she realized two things. The first was that this was his left hand, and as she touched it, she could feel the scarring he had mentioned. It was certainly well-healed; it had to have happened over years ago, after all. But there it was.

And the second thing that she realized was that, besides their handshake in the laundry room a month ago, this was the first time they were touching. And a handshake hardly seemed to count, not when she didn't know who he was. A month ago, he was just her absurdly hot neighbor. Now …

His eyes flicked to meet hers; he understood the significance, too. She awkwardly cleared her throat and let go—slowly and casually, so he wouldn't think she was uncomfortable touching him. "So, uh, sorry about the necklace," she said; the packing slip on the table reminded her of what _else_ she had thrown at him. She could also see that he was still wearing the necklace she'd given him; it was hidden under his T-shirt, but the chain peeked out around his neck.

"You were upset, love," he said. "It's all right."

"Do you still have it?"

He laughed; it was a real laugh, and not a polite chuckle. "Aye, I still have it. Shall I fetch it for you?"

She blushed. "I do miss wearing it."

"I'll get it," he said, standing and making his way towards what was clearly his bedroom.

She stood and half-followed him; she wasn't about to follow him into his _bedroom_ uninvited, but she was tired of sitting at the table. He returned quickly, and if he thought it was strange that she was waiting in the middle of the living room, he hid his surprise well. "Shall I?" he asked, holding up the pendant.

She nodded in reply and turned around. She thought he would undo the clasp, so she was a little startled as he draped it over her head. But then again, she'd just touched his hand; he was probably just as good at undoing a tiny necklace clasp sober as she was while drunk.

She shivered as the backs of his hands lightly grazed her sweatshirt-covered shoulders, and again when he gently gathered her hair so that it wouldn't sit in underneath the chain. "Thank you," she said sincerely as she turned around.

"My pleasure, Swan."

"Emma," she reminded him.

"Are you sure?" he asked, smirking slightly. "You seem fond of nicknames. Perhaps I should call you Princess."

She laughed. "You want me to call you Captain?"

"I wouldn't stop you. Although—well, what was my nickname? I mean, my nickname because you didn't know my real name," he clarified. "Or was I not fortunate enough to be granted a moniker?"

"You were Hot Guy."

"Well, that's not terribly creative."

"Creative like Princess? Or Captain? Or Sexy Single Dad?"

"Fair enough. So …" He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Would I prefer to be called Captain or Hot Guy?"

"How about Killian?" she asked sarcastically.

She'd meant it a little jokingly; the ego she'd grown quite fond of on paper was finally showing itself in person, and it was easy to fall into their old banter. But instead of making a silly or self-assured retort, he blushed and smiled.

"What?" she asked.

"It's just that I've spent a lot of time thinking about us finally meeting, and having you know my name," he said. "It means quite a lot to hear you say it."

It very suddenly became a little more difficult to breathe.

"Killian," she said again.

He reached across the small distance that was still between them and gently moved a lock of hair away from her face. "Emma," he said.

She leaned forward and kissed him softly, both his and her lips barely parting. When the kiss ended, he pulled away, only the slightest bit and only for a short moment. "Emma," he said again, but this time, he said it in a rough whisper, and before she knew it, he was kissing her again. Hard.

It was electric. Every nip, every suck, every probe of his tongue made her feel warmer and bolder and _better_. Automatically, her hands found their way into his hair, and his pulled her closer to him, one hand between her shoulders and one at the small of her back, dangerously (but appreciably) close to her ass.

Damn. She was so glad it had been him.

* * *

**I hope you folks liked this chapter! Especially after the last one ... sorry that it ended up being twice as long as I'd planned!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Content note: This chapter contains sexual content.**

* * *

Killian eventually slowed the pace until he was giving her one last, hard kiss before finally relaxing his arms and breaking the kiss. "That was …" His voice was completely wrecked.

"Overdue," she finished. She felt like her whole body was starting to melt.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long."

"No," she said. "No, you were right."

"Is that so?" He raised an eyebrow.

"If we'd met normally, and gone on dates, we would have kissed, just like now, and it would have been great," she said.

"But not like _this,"_ he finished.

"But not like this," she agreed. She pressed herself up against him, her body still thrumming. "If just kissing could feel like _this …"_

"Love, are you sure?" he asked.

"Are you sure that you love me?"

He kissed her again deeply before replying, "Yes."

"Then yes."

That was enough for him to literally sweep her off her feet and promptly carry her to the bedroom. He deposited her on the bed, and kissed her and kissed her and _kissed her_ as he pulled off her sweatshirt, groaning when he discovered she only had a thin, see-through camisole on underneath. Said camisole promptly followed, and then her yoga pants, which were tight enough that her underwear came off with them. Before letting him lay her back down on the bed, she knelt forward and tugged off his clothes. She barely had time to appreciate her first view of his cock after pushing down his pajama pants before he guided her back onto the bed.

She'd expected that actually having sex with Killian would be better than just pleasuring herself to his letters. But she didn't expect it to be beyond her wildest dreams of what amazing sex could be.

His hands were everywhere: digging into her hips, stroking her neck, squeezing her breasts, and caressing her thighs. And oh god, his mouth—at first, he followed his fingers with his lips and tongue, but soon, she was assertively nudging him back to her nipples. He gamely complied, alternating between licks, sucks, and perfectly timed nips.

She was writhing by the time he finished his eager exploration. A week ago, in written form, he'd promised her that if he were with her, he'd find all of the spots on her body that would leave her a melted boneless mess, and he hadn't been exaggerating even a little.

He eventually adjusted his position so that his head was down between her legs. "You should play with your exquisite breasts, love. I want to see you tweaking those lovely nipples when I glance up at you." Hearing him give instructions was even more of a turn on than reading them; her hands flew to her breasts almost instantly.

His scruff scraped against her skin as he gave her folds a tentative lick; she had no way of knowing if he'd deliberately timed it with the pinch she'd just given her nipples, or if had just been an incredibly pleasurable coincidence. Soon, he was lapping fervently, occasionally pulling her lips into his mouth gently and swirling his tongue as he did so. No one had ever done that to her before, and she'd never thought to ask for it, but somehow he could tell that it would make her hips jerk and her legs tremble. And somehow, he also knew the perfect moment to move his lips and tongue to her clit and begin finger-fucking her. When he added a second finger and sucked hard, she came, moaning his name. His real name.

It took her several minutes before she could even think straight; he lay down next to her in the meantime, lightly caressing her arm.

"All right there, love?"

She managed a weak chuckle. "Oh, I think you know." She rolled on her side and gently pushed him onto his back. In response to his quizzical look, she grinned. "My turn."

Since the first day she'd seen in him in the building, when he'd been sweaty and stressed trying to move in, she'd wondered what he would look like sweating from a different sort of activity. All of their brief encounters at the fitness center just made her curiosity even stronger. And while their dirtier letters had mostly been about what she was doing to herself and what he wanted to do to her, he'd dropped enough hints that she had some idea of what she wanted to do to him when she finally had the opportunity.

She climbed on top of him, tangling her fingers in his hair as she kissed him along his neck and rubbed her breasts against his chest; they both still wore their necklaces, which clinked together. She slowly moved downward, keeping her chest pressed against him, and kissing and gently nipping at his skin as she did so. She felt him tense up in anticipation just before her breasts finally dragged against his erection, at which point he groaned. "Oh god, _Emma."_

She could get used to hearing _that._

Emma didn't stop there; she continued moving downwards until her head was positioned between his legs, and she gave soft, experimental kisses to his thighs, getting teasingly close to where he wanted her. She loved the way he shivered, knowing what she was going to do, but unsure when she was going to do it, or how.

The strangled moan he let out when she cupped his balls and licked a wide stripe up the underside of his shaft was so erotic, she felt a fresh wave of arousal. She shifted so that she could straddle one of his legs while she grasped and licked him; when she took him entirely in her mouth, she ground against his knee.

Her patchwork knowledge of him from his letters was so strange. Over the past month, as they'd exchanged erotic notes, she'd learned that he was circumcised; that he loved having his balls played with; that there was not a single part of his body he _hadn't_ fantasized having her breasts pressed up against.

But he was still a new partner, and this was still their first time together; she was learning that he was quite vocal (if not eloquent) when he was being pleasured, that he didn't leak very much pre-cum at all, and that the easiest way to wreck him was to moan softly around his cock.

As his breathing grew more labored and his hips began to twitch more frequently, she finished, giving him one last long, slow suck before letting his cock pop from her mouth.

"Bloody hell," he gasped. "That was incredible. I was getting close."

"I know," she said, absentmindedly rubbing herself against his leg.

The movement, which he'd been distracted from earlier, caught his attention. "Ah, ready for another go? How would you like to come?"

"Fuck me," she said immediately, leaning forward and kissing him hard before he could reply. She could still taste herself on his mouth.

"As you wish," he replied, reaching between them and giving her breasts a playful grope. "Just need to get a condom."

"I'm on the pill."

"Ah, then we don't even need to move," he said happily. "Just move your other leg, darling." She lifted it, and he adjusted so that as she put her leg back down on the other side of his body, she could feel him pressing into her.

He practically slid in. She hadn't been expecting that; with every other partner she'd ever had, including Walsh and Neal, it had taken some amount of very, very slowly easing a guy into her to finally get comfortable.

But then again, she'd just come harder than she'd ever come in her life, and she'd been so horny afterwards that she'd been desperately trying to get some friction while she gave a blow job. So maybe it shouldn't have surprised her that much. "Oh god."

"I know," he replied. But it wasn't a smug reply—he was agreeing with her. And they had only just started.

She started to move, leaning forward and grabbing the headboard of his bed (thank god they were at this place; she didn't even have a headboard). He shifted underneath her, angling to better access her breasts with his mouth and her clit with one of his hands. It didn't take very long for her to have her second orgasm of the morning; it wasn't as incapacitating as her first climax had been, but it had the added—and wonderful—quality of occurring when she felt completely full.

"God, love, you feel incredible."

"So do you," she gasped, still throbbing around him. "God, how have you not come yet?"

"Hold on," he grunted, sitting up and holding her tightly. Before she knew what was happening (she was still half-dazed from her peak), he'd flipped her onto her back. She moaned and wrapped her legs around his waist. She'd never had just one favorite position, but this was certainly one she always enjoyed. He clearly did, too; he was moaning incoherently.

He came with a pronounced groan, thrusting more gently as he slowed down. She whimpered a bit as he pulled out; she was damn sensitive after so much attention and activity. He didn't go very far, though; he settled in on his side, next to her, with one arm flung over a pillow, and the other resting gently on her ribcage.

She shifted carefully, extremely conscious of what might happen if she sat up too quickly, so that she could get a better look at him. She'd assumed that their first time seeing each other naked would be a slow, intimate moment, probably after a very romantic third or fourth dinner date. She'd imagined that he would slowly undress her and spend lots of time staring at her before touching her naked body; she'd also imagined that she'd do the same to him.

Instead, they'd fallen into bed together within hours of meeting in person, and neither one of them had taken very much time to get a good look at the other. It hadn't been wrong or disappointing to tear each other's clothes off and fuck. Just surprising. But at least now, she could take in the naked form of her Captain, Killian Jones.

And, well, he was glorious. She'd ogled him plenty when she'd bumped into him at the gym, or in the laundry room (or in the elevator, or at the mailboxes, or walking down the hallway), but his well-muscled arms and chest were even more attractive when he was completely nude (and covered in sweat after making love to her; that really helped). His chest and stomach were hairier than she'd imagined; based on his clearly well-maintained scruff, she figured he took manscaping pretty seriously. His abs and legs were just as buff as the rest of him; she resisted reaching out to trace the muscles on his stomach.

And god, his face. His blue eyes were hazy from happy exhaustion, his cheeks were a little flushed from their activities, and his short, dark hair was a mess. She'd always thought he was handsome, but now, as he looked at her with a ridiculously love-struck expression, he was even more gorgeous.

The opening lines of "Carry On Wayward Son" coming from the living room interrupted her thoughts. "Shit, I left my phone in the other room." He pushed himself off the bed and gestured for her to stay before leaving the bedroom. "What do you want, mate?" he asked as he answered the phone. She could hear him moving around the living area, but without being able to see out the bedroom door very well from the bed, she wasn't sure what he was doing.

"I just got in last night, so I'm quite jetlagged, as any reasonable person might expect, you bloody idiot." His voice was nearing the bedroom again. "I'd honestly rather not talk about it."

He returned with a couple of towels; after he handed one to her, he gestured to what she thought was a closet door. "That's quite honestly none of your business," he said irritably into the phone. "Oh, so you want to know what happened, mate? You want to know? She rejected me." He winked at her. "And it's all your damn fault. She was so angry that you'd dared me. Of _course_ I told her; I thought she'd find it funny. But it's still your fault, you wanker. So, thanks for calling to ask about something that I'd rather forget about." He paused to listen to his friend's reply, and his grin grew wider listening to it. "Sorry's not going to cut it, Jeff. You knew how I felt about her, and now it's ruined. Look, I desperately need a shower, so I'm going to go, but yeah, _happy New Year_ to you, too." He hung up.

"I take it that was your friend J? Or Jefferson, I guess?"

"Aye. He wanted to know if I'd finally unmasked myself."

"So you lied?"

He shrugged. "I didn't _really_ lie," he pointed out. "You _did_ reject me. I just failed to mention that the rejection was temporary." His smile faltered. "Uh, it _was_ temporary, right? Love, I swear, I don't make a habit of lying. I'm just trying to get back at him."

"You're a lawyer and you don't make a habit of lying?" she asked skeptically.

"Oi, we're not all evil. I don't lie in my personal life. Anyway, I really do desperately need a shower. You're more than welcome to join me." He walked over to the door he'd pointed to earlier and opened it.

"Ugh, you have an en suite bathroom?" she groaned. "We're never going to hang out at my place, are we?"

He shrugged. "Love, I'll hang out wherever you'd like to. Besides, it's not like it matters much. The commute between our places is quite short." He leaned in the doorway casually. "Now, as I said, I'm going to be showering now. Would you care to join me? I don't mean to be rude, but you do look _awfully_ dirty to me."

She came again in the shower.

* * *

**I am SO SORRY. I forgot to warn everyone that I would be on a partial internet blackout until tonight, in order to avoid spoilers for Sunday night's OUAT episode. I can't watch live, and I watch with my best friend who works late, so that means waiting about 24 hours. I knew this chapter wouldn't be up, but forgot to mention that. I hope this made up for it!**

**There are two chapters left after this one (one more regular chapter, and an epilogue).**


	18. Chapter 18

Late Sunday afternoon, Emma deposited herself at the table at Tavern in the Square where her five very curious friends sat. "What?" she asked casually.

"Oh, don't you dare," Ruby practically growled.

"I don't know what you guys are talking about," she lied, putting on her best "oblivious" expression.

"You don't have to tell us how it went," Victor said. "Just tell us who won the bet."

"Um, excuse me, but _I_ want to know how it went," Mary Margaret said.

"You're enjoying this a lot, aren't you?" David asked.

"Just a little," Emma admitted.

"Oh my god," Tink said suddenly, looking towards the door, which Emma had her back to. "Oh my _god_, it's Snob with Sideburns."

"Yes!" David pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. A server came by and Emma requested a Sam Adams and a Captain and Coke.

"Oh my god, here he comes!" Mary Margaret was literally on the edge of her seat. Emma glanced behind her to see Snob with Sideburns walking up to the bar.

"So I guess he's not so much of a snob," Victor offered.

"Wait," Tink said. "Hold on. Eyebrows just walked in."

"Yes!" It was Mary Margaret's turn to gloat.

But neither Snob with Sideburns nor Eyebrows approached the table, much to her friends' confusion. But it wasn't as though she'd invited them; it was a local bar, one that a lot of tenants in her building liked to come to. This wasn't the first time she'd seen either Snob with Sideburns _or_ Eyebrows (or plenty of her other neighbors) at this particular place.

"Guys, you may have noticed, I didn't even tell you whether or not things even worked out," Emma reminded them, as the server came by with her drinks.

"What do you mean?" Victor asked.

"Well, it turns out, that it was all a dare," she said, trying to sound sad. Not _too_ sad; she played it as though she was disappointed, but not devastated that it hadn't worked out. "His friend dared him to get the hot blonde in his building wrapped around his little finger. I'm embarrassed, to be honest."

"Are you serious?" Mary Margaret asked angrily. Ruby and David's mouths hung open, and Tink was shaking her head in disbelief.

"I am," she said. "He told me in the last letter, and he told me so face to face. You should have seen how upset I was."

"Emma, I'm so sorry." Tink reached her hand across the table to take Emma's. "You couldn't have known. You said he always sounded so sincere in his letters."

"But who won the bet?" David asked again; Mary Margaret swatted him before turning her attention back to Emma.

"Do you need anything from us?" she asked. "I know you hate moving, but if you need to not be around your building for a while, you know we've got a spare bedroom."

"That's really sweet of you, but I'll be okay. You know how much I love that apartment."

"It'll be okay," Ruby reassured her. "Although I've half a mind to kick this guy's ass."

"Well, that hardly seems like a friendly way to introduce yourself," Killian said from behind Emma.

"I guess I left out the part where I forgave him over the whole dare thing," Emma said, taking a victory sip of her beer and turning to a passing server. "Hi, excuse me, but could we get another chair at this table?"

"Yes!" It was Tink's turn to pump her fist. "I knew it! Oh my god!" She turned to Victor. "How much do I win?"

The server brought over the requested chair, and as Killian sat next to her, Emma pushed over his drink. Victor pulled out the crumpled napkin from the night they made the bet. "Shit, Tink gets two hundred dollars."

"Damn!" Ruby said, fishing through her wallet and pulling out a fifty dollar bill.

"Love, what are you doing?" Killian asked as he saw her getting a twenty from her purse.

"I told you, I bet, too," she admitted. She handed her money to Tink, who was grinning.

"So?" Mary Margaret asked impatiently.

"So," Emma said, "this is Killian. Killian, this is my sister Mary Margaret; my brother-in-law David; my friend Tink; and my friends Ruby and Victor."

"It's a pleasure to meet all of you," Killian said cheerfully.

Her friends simply stared for a few moments before Ruby said, "Oh my god, you guys have been fucking the _whole_ weekend, haven't you?"

Emma blushed as the rest of her friends admonished Ruby, but she felt Killian reach down and take her hand. She gently caressed the scars on his skin with her thumb; she'd spent the whole weekend trying to memorize just about every inch of his body, and the scars on his hand were no exception.

"Relax, everyone," she finally said. "Look, Ruby's just trying to get revenge on me because I spilled the beans about her and Victor."

"Am not!" Ruby protested.

"Well, wait," Mary Margaret interrupted. "Does that I mean I get revenge on _someone_ for spilling the beans about me and David?"

"Please, that was ten years ago!" Victor said defensively. "You can't still be upset about that."

"I could have gotten in huge trouble," David reminded him. "I was her RA! It was against the rules!"

"And look how terribly things turned out," Victor said sarcastically. "What with you being happily married and all."

"You guys are ruining this happy moment for me," Tink said, fanning out all the money she'd just acquired.

"You bet twenty?" Killian confirmed. Emma nodded. "Well, I can't have you losing money on my account. I suppose I'll just have to make sure you don't pay for any of your drinks tonight. In fact, I've got the tab," he said to the whole table.

Victor leaned over and clapped him on the back. "Well, it won't make up for the sixty dollars you lost me, but it's a start."

The rest of the evening was a happy blur, with everyone asking Killian about himself (things that Emma already knew; what she hadn't learned over the past two months, she'd learned over the course of the weekend) and including him in their conversations. He got into a particularly involved discussion with David about whiskey, to the point where Emma and Mary Margaret had to switch seats so the two men could sit next to each other.

Afterwards, as they returned to their building and rode the elevator up to their floor, she leaned into him and took his hand. "I'm not ready for this to be over," she said.

"What makes you think this is over?" he asked worriedly.

"I meant the weekend," she clarified. "I'm going to have to go to bed, and then wake up and go to work."

"Well, it's not _that_ late," he pointed out as they arrived at her door. "If you'd like, I can keep you company until we ought to call it an evening."

"True." She pushed open her door and he followed her inside. This was the first time he'd seen her place; over the course of the whole weekend, she'd only stopped by to change her clothes. "Sorry, I know it's nothing like your place," she added apologetically as she tossed her purse on the breakfast bar.

He gave her a quizzical look. "You mean it has character," he corrected her.

"That's one way to compliment someone for having mismatched furniture."

"I'm serious, darling." He examined her dresser as though it were some kind of showpiece. "Nothing I own has a story behind it. Nothing really has any meaning to me. That apartment is just a place to live." He turned back to her. "It's not a home, love."

"And this is?"

He pointed to the dresser. "Tell me about this dresser," he said. "Where is it from?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "My parents bought it for me."

"Recently?"

"No, almost fifteen years ago, when they first adopted me."

"Fifteen years later, you still have this dresser," he said. "This dresser which has some scratches on it, and several stains. Is it because you can't afford a new one?"

"No," she replied, wondering where he was going with the line of questioning. "It's because that's the first piece of furniture I _ever_ owned—something that was actually _mine _and not a hand-me-down or something I had to share with anyone—and I'm going to own it till the day I die."

"Exactly." He was quite animated. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. This isn't just a piece of furniture. It's a memory. It's part of your history." He sighed and gently laid his hand on the surface of the wood. "I don't have that sort of history."

"What about the _Jolly?"_ she asked. She pulled off her shoes before stepping over to him, caressing his arm. "I mean, if someone came to you tomorrow and offered to buy you a brand new boat to replace her, would you take it?"

"No," he admitted. "I'm not sure I can keep the _Jolly_ forever, but I would never consider replacing her if I didn't have to."

"See?" she said. "You do have something. And besides, I _do_ like your apartment. Everything matches."

"If you like everything to match, but you're keeping this dresser forever, does that mean you'll never be satisfied?" he asked, but he was grinning.

"Well, in thirty years, if I'm ever done paying off my student loan debt—you know, assuming I'm that lucky—I'll either hunt down a bedroom set that matches, or I'll just have to bite the bullet and have something custom made."

"I find that to be a very sensible plan."

"Well, my furniture-shop-owning ex-boyfriend didn't think so," she said unhappily.

"Which furniture shop _is_ this?" he asked curiously. "I'd prefer not to ever step foot in there; it would be bad form to help bolster the sales of the man who treated you so poorly."

"Wizard of Oak. It's up near Beacon Hill, near the Common." He made a face. "What? Is it the cheesy name? It is, isn't it? I told him he should change the name."

"No, it's that I _did_ go there," he said. "I just bought my dining table a few months ago, and that was one of the places I browsed while shopping."

"And?"

"Well, not only was none of the furniture to my taste, but the man I spoke with was quite infuriating. He kept insisting that mid-century modern was perfect for me, and that it would be a shame for me to waste my money on something as generic as Pottery Barn. And when I joked that I actually liked the style of some IKEA furniture, he just looked at me as though I were completely mad. And he even suggested anyone who was foolish enough to waste their money on something from IKEA—"

"—deserved the dirty looks they'd get from guests," she finished, having heard this particular line more than once. "Yeah, you talked to my ex-boyfriend, Walsh."

"Quite a gentleman," Killian said sarcastically. "You'll be pleased to hear that I told him that I didn't appreciate his rudeness and that I would be spending my money elsewhere. And _I'm_ pleased to hear that I stole his girlfriend."

"Once again, you did _not_ steal me," she said, lightly whacking him on the shoulder. "That relationship was pretty much over when you left the first letter."

He simply grinned and led her over to her bed. "Well, sometimes it makes me feel quite grand to believe otherwise."

She stretched and sat down. "So, what do you want to do?" He raised an eyebrow and she blushed. "Besides that. To be honest, I don't think I could take another round. I could barely walk to the bar and back tonight."

"Shall we see what's on television?" he asked, laying down and patting the spot beside him; she lay back next to him. "Perhaps I should get one for my bedroom. It's nice watching in bed." She smiled but said nothing as she grabbed her remote and began channel surfing.

An hour or so later, Emma found herself drifting; she could tell from his breathing that Killian was struggling to stay awake as well. "Do you want to call it a night?" she asked softly.

"I suppose we have to go to bed sometime," he said sadly.

"I don't want you to go."

"And I don't want to go."

"Maybe … maybe you could stay the night." It felt strange to be nervous about suggesting that he stay, given that she'd spent the past two nights in his bed. But this was different. First, they were at her place. Her bed was less comfortable, and she might not even have an extra toothbrush for him; he might have to go back to his place for that anyway. And it wasn't as though he was crashing at her place because they'd just fucked and he was too tired to go home. That had been the reason why she'd stayed at his place … or one reason, at least. They definitely weren't having sex tonight, given that they were both half-asleep.

And tomorrow was a work day for both of them. Sleeping in the same bed on a work night, when they hadn't even just had sex? When they'd just spent the _whole_ weekend together?

"I'd love to stay the night, darling," he murmured. "I'll be back in a moment; I need to take out my lenses and brush my teeth." He rose and fished his keys out of his pocket as he walked to the door. "Mind if I prop the door while I'm gone?"

"Nope." In the meantime, she headed to the bathroom for her own nightly routine, which she finished as he returned.

Undressing to sleep was oddly non-sexual. It didn't seem to be a negative thing, though. It wasn't like she was bored of his incredible body already, or like she didn't find him attractive. It was just … practically domestic.

"All right, love?" he asked as she curled up against him. "I can practically hear you thinking."

"Why did you come back?" she asked. "I mean, to my place. You had to go home to get ready for bed. So why come back, if you had to go home anyway?"

"It's not really _home," _he corrected her. "It's just my apartment. You're not there right now—you're _here._ So why wouldn't I want to be here?"

He looked so serious and so genuine, but it wasn't as though he was implying that she was clueless for having to ask. He _understood; _he knew everything—her insecurities, her hopes, her dreams. He knew about her miscarriage and her abandonment, but also her pet peeves and her bad habits—at least the ones she was honest enough to cop to in her letters. He knew that she hated being cold more than almost anything, and that she refused to buy generic brand cereal. He knew that she cried during Disney movies, and that she wanted to take a long vacation and travel Europe.

He knew that she sometimes worried that her parents were disappointed in her but would never tell her. He knew that she had a fear of people leaving her. And he knew that one of the reasons she'd cried so much at her sister's wedding was because she felt like she would never find someone—not just someone who would love her, but someone she could love. Properly.

And he was someone who loved her.

"What?" he asked. "Have I upset you? Do you want me to go back to my place?"

"I love you," she said. "I don't know how it happened, but I love you."

His arms wrapped around her. "And I love you." He kissed the side of her head. "I'm relieved to hear you say it. I hadn't wanted you to feel pressured."

"I loved you before I met you," she said. "Same as you. I just needed to meet you to realize it."

"More than understandable, love." He pulled back so she could see him smile. "Do you see me complaining?"

"No." She slowly returned his grin.

"Shall we sleep?"

"Yeah." She leaned in for a quick goodnight kiss, which turned into several languid, deep ones. She sighed. "We really should sleep."

"Mmm," he agreed.

And, eventually, they did.

* * *

**I hope you folks enjoyed this chapter! I'd love to know what you think. The next chapter is going to be the epilogue (sorry).**


	19. Epilogue

"We're thrilled you could make it, Killian," Regina said, smiling widely.

"Well, obviously, Thanksgiving isn't really a _thing_ in England," Leo said. He'd obviously meant it as a joke, but it came out a little awkwardly.

"Dad," Mary Margaret said, and Regina turned to give him a glare.

"Spending a family holiday with Emma is somewhat of a priority to me," Killian said; Emma could tell he was trying not to laugh. "I'm thrilled I could be here, too."

"So polite," Regina murmured in approval as she turned to let them into the house.

This wasn't the first time Killian was meeting her parents; they'd visited Boston a few times over the past year. The first visit had been, in fact, specifically to meet him, way back in March. It had been a little nerve-wracking; Emma hadn't introduced her parents to a boyfriend since Neal—well, Walsh and Killian were the only boyfriends she'd _had_ besides Neal—and she had entirely no idea how to handle the situation.

It hadn't helped that Killian had been equally as nervous; the only serious girlfriend he'd ever had was the woman he'd had the affair with, and obviously he'd never had to worry about any sort of "meet the family" situation with her.

But they'd worried for nothing. Regina and Leo had both been beyond ecstatic to meet him, and they ended up being asked to leave the restaurant because they'd talked until closing.

Her parents had come back to Boston for Independence Day; Emma and Killian invited them and David and Mary Margaret to come up to their building's roof deck, where all six of them had enjoyed the fireworks.

And finally, they'd come back to visit for Emma's birthday, taking her and Killian out to dinner again (wisely opting for an earlier reservation, to avoid irritating the staff). That dinner had been a little more stressful, given that she and Killian had moved in together a couple months earlier, and she'd been too nervous to tell them about it. But her parents were entirely unsurprised, with Regina even commenting, "Well, you're together practically every night, so you might as well pay one rent check."

She didn't bother to correct their assumption that the decision to live together had been so simple. Granted, in some ways, it _had_ been just that simple: when they'd each received notice from management that they could resign their leases or give thirty days notice, it had barely taken them a single conversation to make the decision. They _did_ spend almost every single night together, and it was getting irritating constantly going back and forth down the hallway of their floor whenever they needed to change.

But the problem had been _how_ to move in together. Emma had known immediately that there was no way they'd be moving into her apartment. Killian wasn't a hoarder by any stretch of the imagination, and neither was she, but the studio was large enough for her belongings and nothing else. Her annual purges had been necessary to continue living in the space without ending up on TLC show.

The fight they had about moving into his apartment hadn't been their first fight (or their second), but it had been their worst. It had been the only time since they'd finally gotten together that Emma had doubts that they were going to _stay_ together; she'd refused to see him for three days straight, sick with anger.

She blamed Walsh, not just because it was easy to blame him for messing her up, but because even Tink agreed that it was probably true.

The day after they'd decided to move in together, they'd been eating dinner at her place, and he'd asked her what she'd like to bring to his apartment.

"Why are you assuming I'm moving into your place?" she'd asked.

"I like your apartment, but we won't fit here," he'd said. "Anyway, we'll definitely have room for your dresser."

"I own more than just a dresser."

"I—I know that. I just mean, I've got a pretty full kitchen, and we don't need two sets of everything. We should definitely keep the slow cooker, though; it's bloody useful."

Looking back, she knew she should have calmed down first; then she would have been able to explain the real issue: she wasn't comfortable moving into _someone else's_ space, or having _someone else_ tell her what she could bring with her, no matter how well-meaning the suggestion. But instead, she'd simply shut off, refusing to talk about it, and ignoring him in favor of the television.

In turn, he'd gotten frustrated to the point of anger, accusing her of being unreasonably attached to _things_, things that didn't really matter, and questioning whether or not she even wanted to live together.

Everything blurred together now, when she thought back on it, but the end result had been the two of them separated for the longest time since he'd gone to London, with each of them devastated that they'd ruined the best thing that had ever happened to them. She'd spent those three days nearly unable to get out of bed, which made her Friday at work pretty terrible, and every time she checked her phone for an apology or _something,_ she'd been devastated to find nothing from Killian.

It had been Tink who had convinced her to be the one to reach out, pointing out that Killian had been the one to do so during their previous fights. "Sweetie, he doesn't know why you're upset. He's probably in his apartment thinking you've broken up with him. I'd bet he's even more miserable than you are, and I've got two hundred dollars to prove that I know what I'm talking about when I bet."

Victor had been the one to suggest _how_ to reach out. "You need a way to let him know that you still care about him, and that this is fixable. And this way, you don't have to worry about missed calls or anything. You'll have time to think about what you want to say."

And so, after three days of misery, she left a note under _his_ doormat before leaving for work on Monday.

_ I hope you had a nice weekend, and that your week is off to a positive start. And if not, I hope that this note might cheer you up. I don't mean to be creepy or anything, but I've seen you around the building, and I find you incredibly attractive._

_ I don't just mean that you're physically attractive, although you certainly are. I mean you seem like the sort of guy a girl could really fall for. Like you would be caring and considerate, and always look out for the person you loved. Or like you would be witty and just cocky enough to be entertaining, but sweet enough not to be a real asshole about it. Or like you'd be the sort of guy a girl would want to spend every single day with because she just couldn't get enough of your company._

_ You certainly seem like the sort of guy who might forgive your (hypothetical, obviously) girlfriend if she were to do something hurtful like give you the silent treatment and then yell at you, instead of just telling you why she was upset or uncomfortable. But I might be wrong._

_With affection,_

_ A secret admirer_

She found him waiting in her apartment when she got home (they'd exchanged keys months earlier). He'd straightened up the apartment, and dinner was cooked and served.

"My darling, I don't care where we live, or what on earth we own," he'd said, as they lay in bed together after dinner. "I just want to come home to you every single damn day."

"We can live in your apartment," she'd said. "But could we treat it like a new place? Like, pretend it was empty, and that we were both moving in together?"

And that was what they'd done. He'd taken down all his decor and asked her what she wanted to put up that was hers, before putting up what he wanted to keep. They'd talked about what duplicate items they had, and who would keep theirs and who would donate. She'd surprised herself by willingly giving up more of her kitchenware than she'd expected, but he'd surprised her by ditching his own bedroom set entirely and finding one that matched her dresser.

Her parents had approved; they'd capped their visit with a tour of the apartment. They'd practically glowed with appreciation when they saw the bedroom furniture. "Keep this one," Regina had whispered as they'd left, just loud enough for Killian to hear.

Thanksgiving dinner went much the way Emma had imagined it might, when she'd been daydreaming a year earlier. It wasn't exactly the same; since Killian had already met her family, they weren't in the getting-to-know-you phase anymore. But he stayed happily engaged in conversation all day and evening, and just as she'd imagined, his hand frequently found hers. After dinner, he helped David dry the dishes, and he'd gotten quite competitive with Emma, challenging her to wash dishes faster to keep up with the brutal pace with which he and David dried them.

It was strange, lying in bed with him in her old bedroom, in a house that was old enough that they couldn't talk above a whisper if they didn't want to be overheard. Every time they shifted, the bed creaked, and Emma desperately hoped her parents didn't think they were trying to have sex.

"How're you holding up?" she whispered.

"Love, I'm fine." He smiled at her, teeth glinting in the dark. "I love your family. I'm enjoying myself."

"Okay. Good."

"Why are you so anxious?"

"I've never done this before—the whole 'bring a boyfriend home for the holidays.' It's more of a Mary Margaret thing."

"She doesn't have a monopoly on it." He gently caressed her arm. "Besides, I think Dave appreciates having some company."

She laughed, before clapping her hand over her mouth. It had been much easier to be quiet when she was single. "Well, that's true," she said, resuming her whisper. "Anyway, I'm glad you're having a good time. I am, too."

"Good," he said. He kissed her cheek. "I'm glad you're not regretting bringing me to a family holiday."

"Oh stop it," she said. "Of course I don't regret it. I'm just glad that you were okay with it."

"Why wouldn't I have been okay with it?"

"Well, I mean … you know, it's a sign that we're really serious. Like, you're becoming part of the family."

He sat up on his elbow, causing the bed to creak slightly. "Swan, I don't know if you've noticed, but we fell in love before we'd really even met. We moved in together less than a year later because we couldn't seem to spend enough time together just living down the hallway. I've met your parents a few times, and we spend a lot of time with your sister and brother-in-law. And I'm supposed to be apprehensive about becoming a part of your family?"

"I didn't mean it like that," she said gently, trying to calm him down. "What's wrong? It's not like you to get this worked up over me being awkward."

He sighed. "Maybe you could just reassure me?"

"Here, lie back down," she instructed, and as he did, she wrapped her arms around him. It really was unlike him to be so insecure about their relationship; that was usually _her_ thing. But for him, she could reverse roles. "Killian, I love you with all my stupid heart, and I'm really, really, _really_ happy you're here with me. It means a lot to me that you want to spend the holidays with my family. I'm just kind of getting used to the fact that you actually _want_ this. I want it, too, but sometimes it's hard to believe it's not just me." She paused, and he didn't say anything. "More?" she asked, unsure of what else she could say.

He laughed softly. "No, that helped. Hold on, let go for a sec." He untangled himself from her arms, and got up out of bed.

"Shh," she reminded him. "We're right above my parents' room."

"I know, sorry. I just have to get something."

"At nearly midnight?" Did he forget to take his contacts out or something?

"Well, as soon as possible," he said. He started fishing through his suitcase. Even though they were only staying in Maine for a couple of nights, he'd insisted on bringing his own suitcase instead of just sharing one with her. He seemed to think her parents would find it inappropriate, despite her insistence that they really, really wouldn't care. She didn't lie and say they wouldn't notice; although Leo might not have, it was a detail that wouldn't have slipped past Regina.

"Come on, we should get some sleep." Just like last year, David and Mary Margaret were hoping to leave in the morning so they could get to Connecticut by the evening, and they'd all four taken the same car.

"Okay," he said patiently. "I just need to find one thing first."

"God, Killian, how important can—"

It was a ring box.

He scratched behind his ear nervously. "I wasn't sure when I wanted to talk to you about this," he said sheepishly. "Or how you'd even feel. I've been carrying it around for a couple weeks now."

"Is that an engagement ring?" She forgot to whisper.

"Yeah."

"You want to _marry_ me?"

"I really do," he said. He wasn't whispering anymore either. She sat up completely, and he sat next to her; the bed creaked loudly. "I want to wake up next to you every day, go to bed next to you every night, and spend as much time as possible in between."

"Why are you asking me now?" Her mouth was completely dry. Was he going to open the damn box?

"I can think of no better way to assure you that I want to be a part of _your_ family than to formally ask you to be _my_ family," he replied.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"I … I'm sorry, no one's ever proposed to me before. I don't know what to say."

"Well, love, if someone proposes to you, and you want to marry them, you say yes."

"Well, _love,"_ she said, mimicking his accent, "you haven't _actually_ proposed."

"Fine, _darling: _will you marry me?"

"Aye-aye, captain. Now show me the damn ring."

"Will you two please be quiet?" Regina called from the bottom of the stairs. "We're trying to sleep down here."

She met his gaze; he was grinning excitedly. "Think we should tell them now?" he asked.

She couldn't help but smile just as widely back. "Of course not. We should go to bed. She told us to be quiet."

He leaned in and kissed her hard, his left hand on her back. It was hard to resist letting out a moan, and even harder to keep from shifting and causing the bed to squeak. He finally broke the kiss, but kept his forehead pressed against hers. "Well, I guess we'll have to be _really_ quiet, then, Princess."

* * *

**Thank you all SO much for reading! I have been absolutely blown away by the response to this story. It was so much fun to write, and while I'm sad to have to end it, this seemed like the right spot.**

**I want to really thank all of you amazing people who reviewed throughout the whole story. Reading your reviews was always the best part of my day, and I can't really express how much I appreciate all the wonderful support you've given me. And I want to thank folks for sharing the story with other people, either by adding this story to your favorites here, or by reblogging the chapters on Tumblr.**

**I'd really love to hear what you think of the story as a whole, now that it's over, if you're up for leaving a review. I'm not sure when my next multi-chapter story will be up; I have a few shorter ideas in the works right now, and one multi-chapter that's been super slow going. In the meantime, I've got several other stories (two multi-chapter ones, and a smattering of one- and two-shots) if you like what you've read here.**

**Thank you thank you thank you thank you THANK YOU so much!**

**List of tenants:**

**Hot Guy: Killian  
****Slightly Crazed Looking Lady: Zelena  
****Off-putting Creepy Teen: Pan  
****The Short Brothers: the dwarves  
****Elderly Italian Guy: Marco  
****His Moderately Attractive Son: August  
****Haughty Blonde: Kathryn  
****Gym Teacher: Frederick  
****Leering Red Hat Guy: Smee  
****American Gladiator: Mulan  
****Pretty Boy: Phillip  
****Eyebrows: Will  
****Snob With Sideburns: Hans  
****Sexy Single Dad: Robin**

**Killian's friends are Graham (detective), Belle (librarian), and Jefferson (who owns a hat shop in Cambridge; Killian was vague on purpose because of the unique nature of the shop).**


	20. The Kind of Magic

**This is another epilogue of sorts, written as a birthday present for a friend.**

* * *

"No."

"Oh, come _on."_

"Ruby, no."

"It's not like he'll have a problem with it."

"No."

"Who are you? Mary Margaret?"

"No."

"You need to live a little. You only get _one_ bachelorette party!" Ruby smirked. "Well, you only _plan_ to get one, but you know what I mean."

Emma rubbed her temples, resisting the urge to hang up on her friend. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but when have I _ever_ made you think I'd be interested in going to a strip club?"

"Come _on_, Emma! Mary Margaret's bachelorette party was so boring!"

"Hey!" High tea wasn't for everyone, but Mary Margaret had always wanted to go. And the bride had said it had made her feel like a princess. And, more importantly: "I worked hard to plan that!"

"And we're working hard to plan _this,"_ Ruby replied. "You're giving me nothing to work with, babe."

"Sorry."

And she _was_ sorry. She remembered how much she'd stressed over planning a bridal shower and bachelorette for Mary Margaret; if her sister hadn't given her so much guidance and feedback about what kinds of parties she wanted, it would have been borderline nightmarish. But she had a feeling that giving Ruby something to work with wasn't going to help, unless she told Ruby that she wanted to get a lap dance from a mostly naked dude.

"Okay, look. I just want something low key, just us and Belle. No penises." She sighed. "This doesn't have to be a wild night to remember. I just want to have a little celebration with close friends."

"Ugh, you are no fun! I'll try to think of something. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Later."

Emma hung up and let out a long, heavy sigh. When she'd accepted Killian's proposal on Thanksgiving, she'd been equal parts shocked and excited. It wasn't like marriage was totally off the radar until that point, but it was always just this hypothetical thing they'd talk about very occasionally. But she'd had no idea that he'd been ready to take that step.

She was a little worried, though, that they'd been moving too quickly. Before going downstairs for breakfast the following morning, she'd warned him that the first question her parents asked when Mary Margaret and David got engaged was when the wedding would be. Killian had simply shrugged and asked if she had any thoughts, giving her the perfect opportunity to ask for a year-long engagement. A year would give her plenty of time to feel unhurried, to feel confident that they were getting married because they loved each other, and not because they were in some ridiculously prolonged honeymoon-phase bubble.

Emma regretted that decision. With two months to go until the wedding, every day seemed to involve suppressing a homicidal rage she didn't even know she was capable of experiencing. How could she have ever thought that a year-long engagement was a good idea?

Everything irritated her. Calling Killian her fiancé felt awkward and overly formal, and it always invited congratulations and questions. The former had been nice at the beginning, but ten months in, it was annoying. And the latter had been obnoxious from the start ("Well, I just got engaged a week ago, so no, I don't have a dress yet") and just got more and more unwelcome ("Thanks for the unsolicited suggestions, but we already have wedding favors, so no, we're not interested in also getting beer koozies").

Dress shopping had been so horrible, she'd cried afterwards in the dressing room. Thanks to years of watching _Say Yes to the Dress,_ she'd brought her mother and her entire wedding party to the bridal salon. Tink and Mary Margaret had gotten really silly about bridesmaids dresses, having fun and wasting time by insisting on trying on the most outlandish dresses they could find; the consultants were extremely annoyed, and to everyone's shock but Emma's, the level of customer service dropped quickly after that.

Then, after promising to pay for Emma's dress as a wedding gift, Regina became extremely critical of the dress that was Emma's favorite, and insisted on something more traditional. Even worse, everyone else oohed and aahed over Regina's favorite, to the point where Emma had caved and ordered it. When anyone asked (of course, meaning well) about her dress, she had to fight back tears.

If only the dress were the only problem. Plenty of decisions were left for her and Killian to decide on their own, since they were footing the bill. But everyone seemed insistent on learning every detail of the wedding and lecturing her on it, and it was hard for her to resist the pressure.

Their colors were supposed to be black and red, their two favorite colors, but thanks to Regina's criticisms, the wedding colors were now blue and green. A return trip to the bridal salon resulted in Mary Margaret deciding that all four bridesmaids should wear identical dresses, even though Emma had just told them to wear whatever dress they wanted. Tink had silently tutted over the center pieces before insisting they get bigger ones. Belle and Ruby had come to the tasting with them and talked them out of having a fish option. David had decided that engraved shot glasses were the hippest wedding favors ever and had ordered them without asking. Victor had criticized the invitation samples Emma had shared with him, and had instead bombarded her with designs he thought were more appropriate. And of course, Regina had given her seal of approval to those designs.

Worst of all (well, worst of all aside from the dress), her pleas to have no bridal shower were ignored by her entire wedding party, resulting in the most awkward afternoon of her life, sitting in Mary Margaret's living room, making small talk with every woman and girl on the guest list, and being as polite and enthusiastic as possible as she opened each gift (purchased from the registry that Jefferson had insisted they make, and which Ruby and Tink had populated for them).

And now, Ruby was going to throw her a bachelorette party. While she hoped that her friend would take the "no penis" rule to heart, it was incredibly likely that, like so many of her other protestations, it would go unheeded. If Ruby thought the bachelorette party needed penises, then it was going to have penises.

The thought of a penis-shaped cake was enough for her to chuckle helplessly before wiping her eyes.

No, this was not what she imagined it would be like being engaged.

She was still wiping away the occasional tear when she heard Killian's keys in the lock, and she quickly rubbed at her eyes and tried to regain her composure. He'd taken Graham and his girlfriend Merida out for a sail that afternoon; was it already six o'clock? Shit, she'd forgotten to get started on dinner, as promised.

"Hey, sorry," she said as he walked through the door. She couldn't help but smile at his slightly wind-burned cheeks and extremely messy hair. "I lost track of time."

"Oh, good," he said, before sweeping her up in a hug. "I actually meant to text you to suggest we order some sushi."

That was weird. It was unlike him to prefer delivery over a home-cooked meal on a Saturday. "Do you not feel well?"

He pulled back, and she could see him trying to hide a grimace. "I'm fine, I'm just in the mood for sushi tonight."

He was totally lying. "Okay, what's _really_ wrong?" she asked.

He sighed. "I'd rather not talk about it."

She knew by now that pushing him would end badly, and so instead, she picked up her cell phone. "All right. Should I get the usual?"

"That would be lovely."

They were halfway through their meal, with Killian very obviously picking at his food, when Emma's phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Is this Ms. Swan?"

"Speaking."

"This is Fairytale Cakes Bakery."

"Oh." The place they'd ordered a cake from. "Is there something wrong? Did our payment not go through?"

"Actually, it did, but I'm calling you because someone made a scheduling error in our system." Her heart dropped. "Is your wedding date Saturday the twelfth or Sunday the thirteenth?"

"Saturday." She swallowed hard. "The twelfth."

There was a heavy sigh at the other end. "That's what I thought. I'm really sorry about this, but a mistake was made when we booked your date, and we had you down for Sunday instead."

"Can't you just rebook us for the right date?" Killian stiffened beside her; he clearly had figured out what was going on.

"Unfortunately, we're already booked solid for the twelfth," the person explained. "There's no way we can fit you in that day; we've already had to hire extra drivers."

Fuck. "Okay, so …" she took a deep breath. "Does this mean that you're returning our payments?"

"Give me the phone," Killian said suddenly. She didn't even think twice before handing it over. "This is Killian Jones, Ms. Swan's fiancé," he said authoritatively. "How soon will you be returning our payments? I'm sorry, but the contract we signed indicates that you will return all payments, including the original deposit, in the event that you cannot provide the service we've paid you for." He paused and a little smile appeared on his face; she recognized it as his lawyer smile. "Very good. I expect we'll be receiving a check in the mail by this coming Friday. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

His smile faded as he hung up; the pleasure of winning a legal argument was quickly replaced by concern. "So, we are without a wedding cake," he said quietly.

She nodded. "I don't know how much advance notice bakeries need."

He shrugged. "Before we booked these _fine, fine_ folks at Fairytale Cakes, I did some research. Plenty of people wait until a month before the wedding. We should be fine." He frowned. "Although, I don't recall doing any cake tastings elsewhere, or even inquiring."

"That's because this is where David and Mary Margaret got their cake from, and they insisted we get ours from there, too."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she could her angry tears welling up again. Killian, damn him, noticed immediately. "Love, what's wrong?" He quickly set her phone down on the coffee table in front of them and put his arms around her. "We'll figure this out. I'm sure we'll find an even better cake."

She laughed, and when she did, her tears began to flow freely. "I didn't even like that damn cake place," she admitted. "I was too polite to tell Mary Margaret that I didn't like her wedding cake."

He pulled back. "Truly? But why didn't you say anything to me?"

She shook her head. "Like it even matters. Even when I make a decision, they all find a way to make me change it."

"What do you mean?"

It was like a dam was breaking, and everything she'd kept bottled up for months came spewing forth. "The new centerpieces are too big, the shot glasses as favors are stupid, I really wanted to serve fish, I think the invitations look terrible, I hate the father-daughter dance song Leo picked out, I hate the wedding colors, I didn't even want a bridal shower in the first place, we don't need all this goddamn kitchen crap that we already have, I want cake that has _real_ frosting that actually tastes sweet, I don't want penises at my bachelorette party." She took a big shaky breath. "And I want to burn my fucking wedding dress. Okay? Are you happy?"

He looked stunned by her confessions. She wasn't sure if it was the content or the volume, but either way, she instantly regretted it all. Now he was going to think she didn't even want to marry him. And why _wouldn't_ he think that? It's not as though she'd handled the whole "moving in together" thing that well. "Never mind. I'm sorry, I just—"

"Emma, the reason I'm upset tonight is that I spent three hours on a boat with Graham and Merida telling me that we _had_ to have Grace as our flower girl, even though you and I agreed not to have one, to the point where they were texting Jefferson to confirm that it would be okay."

"But we didn't _want_ one!" A fresh wave of tears spilled out and she buried her face in her hands. "This is what I'm talking about!"

"Emma, love, I know." He wrapped his arms around her. "I wasn't telling you that to upset you. I was simply trying to explain that I've been dealing with the same pressure from our friends. Will you please look at me?" She complied, wiping at her nose and wondering just how anyone could possibly look attractive while in the middle of a temper tantrum. Killian's face was full of both concern and anger, and she instantly wished she hadn't looked up. "Do you want Grace to be the flower girl?"

"I mean, they already told Jefferson, so we can't—"

"Do you, or do you not, want Grace to be the flower girl, Emma?"

"I don't," she whispered.

"Now tell me," he said, his voice lowering a bit. "Tell me what you want to do."

"It's too late."

"I'll be the judge of that." His lips twitched a bit at what she assumed he thought was a legal joke he'd made. "Now, what is it that you would like?"

She sighed, and tried to think of what she'd listed to him. "I … uh … well, you and I wanted red and black for the theme," she reminded him.

He nodded. "I'd still like that."

"But everything's green and blue now." She shook her head.

"Well, what's 'everything?'"

"Bridesmaids dresses are blue, my bouquet is blue and _super_ ugly and huge, the centerpieces are these huge green vases with ugly blue flowers, and stupid green lanterns everywhere, my shoes are green—"

"That's fine," he said, cutting her off. "Colors are wrong. Bridesmaids dresses are wrong. What else?"

"I wanted a different father-daughter dance song, but I told Leo he could pick, and he picked John Mayer and I _hate_ John Mayer."

"Because you're a lady of good taste." He quickly got up and grabbed his laptop from his desk; as he sat back down, he opened it and began to type. "Next?"

She shifted a bit in her seat on the couch, straightening up. It was hard not to, not when Killian was clearly getting down to business. "Um, fish," she said. "We wanted salmon, remember? Salmon and beef? And the salmon was _so_ good, but Mary Margaret and Belle were making faces about how people wouldn't like smelly fish and we should get the chicken instead."

"And the chicken was a bit dry," he supplemented; his typing continued. "Anything else about the food?" She shook her head. "You mentioned shot glasses?"

"Oh, right. David bought them for us, and I think they're really tacky."

"Is there something else you'd rather give out as favors?"

"I was … I was thinking that since we met through letters, we could give out little notebooks or something?"

"Oh!" Killian's eyes lit up. "And maybe some pens?"

"Yeah, exactly! And Mary Margaret said we'd need a guestbook or something. I thought we could just get a legal pad and a pen and ask people to write us letters—we can't really write them the way you did, unless you want to bring a spare computer."

"No, I love that idea. Maybe we could even have the pens done with our wedding date." He typed furiously. "Why didn't you mention that earlier?"

She shrugged. "Mary Margaret told me she was going to email me guestbook suggestions, and I figured this idea wouldn't be fancy enough."

"I love it," he said again. "It's easy, it gets the job done, and it'll mean something to us."

It took her a moment to realize she was smiling. She nodded. "So do you think notebooks would be a good favor?"

"I think so."

"What will we do with the shot glasses?"

He shrugged. "Honestly, after having my alcoholic father die of cirrhosis, shot glasses might not be the best wedding favor."

"Oh shit, Killian, I hadn't even thought about that."

"Swan, it's all right, it's just something we can say to your brother-in-law to explain why we can't use those as favors."

"But he ordered them two months ago, and he can't return them!"

"Perhaps then he should have _asked_ us before he bought them," Killian said firmly. "I was with you, remember? He surprised us by showing us the confirmation email."

"But wouldn't it be rude—"

"Don't worry about that." He waved his hand, as though that made the problem disappear magically. "What else did you mention?"

"Uh, the registry." She pointed to the pile of kitchen and home goods she'd gotten at the shower and left on the dining table. "I don't want all this. You and I decided we didn't want to register anywhere because we didn't need anything."

"Right." He typed away. "Did they come with gift receipts?"

"Yeah, most of them."

"Excellent. Next?"

Didn't he … want to talk about it? Oh well. "Before you got home, I was talking to Ruby about the bachelorette party. She's upset because I don't want to go to a strip club, or have penis-themed crap."

"And what sort of bachelorette party do you want?"

"I don't even know." She sighed. "I just want to hang out with my friends, you know? What are you doing for your bachelor party?"

"Currently, I am trying to talk Jefferson and Victor out of taking everyone to a strip club," he chuckled. "So perhaps the Whale-Lucas contingent is in cahoots."

"So you don't like the bachelor party plan either?"

"Not in the slightest. Which is _my_ problem to deal with, my dear."

"But—"

"Anything else? The invitations? I don't want to upset you, but I thought you liked those."

"Uh, yeah, I lied," she admitted. "I didn't want something traditional."

"Did you have anything in mind you really liked? Or did you just not like the ones your mother approved?"

"Mostly the second one. Is that okay?"

"Of course." He shot her a reassuring grin. "I'll take care of it. Anything else?"

She felt like the worst person in the world. "My dress."

He nodded. "Right. And you can't get another one because …?"

"My mom paid for it," she said weakly. "And you can't just return a designer wedding dress."

"Can the salon allow you to exchange it?"

"Maybe, but Regina might be upset if I do. She used the whole 'I'm paying for it' thing as a reason why I couldn't get the one I wanted."

"But there was one you wanted more?"

She nodded, thinking of the beautiful sheath dress that had made her feel like a runway model. But of course, that made her think of Regina's disappointed expression, and her insistence that Emma looked less like a bride and more like a trophy wife at a charity benefit. The enormous, fluffy, bejeweled ball gown that her mother and the wedding party had decided was perfect for her made her feel like a child who'd gotten into the dress-up chest and paraded downstairs in front of her parents' guests, insisting on being addressed as "Pwincess."

"Is there a reason you can't get it?"

She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, a habit she'd picked up from him. "Look, it's complicated. Mom spent money on _this particular_ dress. If I do manage to exchange it, which I might not be able to, then it's like rubbing it in her face that I used the money for a dress she didn't like. And if I _don't_ exchange it and just spend even more money on a second dress, then I'm still stuck with a dress I have to get rid of, and my mom wasted her money. And," she added, "depending on the dress, they need time to order it, so it's probably too late for the dress I want _anyway."_

He was quiet for a few moments, processing what she'd said. It was really annoying how little men were expected to deal with wedding planning; he probably had no idea how complicated dress buying really was. But then he just shrugged and began typing. "What's the name of the bridal salon?"

* * *

The following Saturday, Killian woke her up earlier than usual. "We're going dress shopping," he told her. "I did my research, so I'm supposed to tell you to wear appropriate undergarments and your wedding shoes. Since you hate your wedding shoes, I suggest bringing a pair that are the same height you plan to wear that day."

"Killian," she began, unsure of what to say next. They hadn't spoken about wedding stuff since the last weekend, except for him telling her to deflect any wedding related questions she got from others. "Those are my wedding shoes, I have to wear them."

He shook his head. "They're green, so they won't match the color scheme." He winked. "Now, get out of bed, or we won't have time for breakfast before we go to the salon."

An hour and a half later, she found herself back in the bridal salon for the first time since she'd picked up her dress three months ago. This time, however, she wasn't alone, or followed by four bridesmaids and a determined mother: instead, her similarly determined fiancé stood by her side, looking ridiculous with his arms wrapped around the bulky garment bag containing the princess dress.

"I'm Killian Jones," he said, struggling to shake the hand of the consultant. "We spoke on the phone? This is my lovely fiancée, Emma Swan. She needs a new dress."

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Jones," the consultant said, shaking his hand and then shaking Emma's. "Ms. Swan, your fiancé mentioned you had a particular dress in mind that you tried on here back in January?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Do you remember anything about it? Silhouette, neckline, designer?"

"It was a sheath, really kind of slinky, halter, high neckline …"

"Oh, was it this one?" The consultant beckoned for her to follow, leaving Killian standing by the front with the giant dress still in his arms. "Don't worry," she continued. "My coworker will be helping him process the return."

"But I thought you didn't do returns."

"Well, it's complicated, but we worked something out. He said you wouldn't need to worry about it. Now, was it this one?" she pulled a dress from a rack.

Not _a_ dress. _The_ dress.

"Yes, that's it." Her voice was unexpectedly hoarse, and she felt herself start to get teary eyed.

"It's okay," the consultant said. "Listen, honey, if this were my dress, and someone made me get another one, I'd be weeping tears of joy over being reunited."

"It's just a dress, though," Emma said weakly.

"It's not just a dress," the consultant said firmly. "It's your wedding dress. Would you like to try it on?"

"But we can't order it in time," Emma protested. She didn't want to get attached again, not when the dress wasn't a possibility.

"What size are you?" The consultant checked the tag on the dress.

"Uh, a four."

"This should fit you well enough that we can give it to you off the rack," she explained. "Alterations might cost a little more than if you ordered it with your measurements, but nothing too ridiculous. Here, I'll show you to a fitting room."

Five minutes later, Emma was back in the dress. _Her_ dress. Her beautiful dress that made her feel like a fucking rock star, that she could move around in, that didn't have a complicated train she would trip over, that wouldn't require a production to use the bathroom in. _Her wedding dress._

"All right, love?" Killian was right outside the dressing room. "I won't peek, but I just want to know how you're doing."

"It's perfect," she called back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Thank god she'd forgotten to do her eye make-up this morning.

"The lovely Ashley—she's your consultant—says that you can get the alterations started now if you'd like."

"How did you do this?" she asked.

He paused before answering. "Perhaps I can explain later? They're itching to get the alterations started."

When they were back in the car on their way home, he explained. "They've contacted your mother with a phony explanation about a problem with the dress," he said. "Something convincing about having to return it and refund her money entirely. They did the same with your bridesmaids; I've already confirmed that all four of them have returned their dresses already, and they're awaiting further instructions from you—well, from me—to proceed with dress buying. Your sister in particular is quite anxious about it, but I've opted to ignore her calls for now." Emma chuckled. "Anyway, everyone's gotten their money back, and you just need to call your mother and explain that you'll take care of the dress. If she insists on paying for it, I've written a few scripts you can use to say no without hurting her feelings."

"But that salon doesn't do returns," she reminded him. "You're charming, but you're not magical."

He sighed. "The salon didn't mind taking the return because I still paid full price for everything. All five dresses are still paid for, just not by your mother and your bridesmaids."

She shot forward in her seat and turned to face him. He did _what?_ "But you paid for dresses they can just _sell_ again!"

"Which is why they didn't mind covering the cost of your dress and alterations," he explained. "Look, Swan, I don't care how much it costs. Together, we've saved up plenty of money to pay for this wedding, and I've my own substantial nest egg. This is a drop in the bucket compared to so many of the other wedding costs; I simply don't _care."_

"Maybe I care," she retorted. "I don't want my fiancé going broke to satisfy me after I threw a tantrum. Killian, none of this even matters! By the end of the day, all that matters is that the officiant doesn't fuck up, and we're legally married, and that's pretty much the _one_ aspect of the wedding that no one else has tried to control."

"This isn't me trying to appease an unreasonable set of demands from my fiancée," he replied. She could tell from the strain in his voice that he was a bit angry with her, or at least with how she'd worded things. "I love you, Swan, more than anything, and that wasn't a temper tantrum. That was an emotional breakdown. And if I can fix that—if I can throw a little money at the problem to ensure your happiness, then I don't care. You were the victim of your own kindness, and our friends and family have taken advantage of that. But you deserve to have the wedding you want. Hell, _we_ deserve to have the wedding _we_ want. Do you think I wanted the new color scheme? Or a chicken entrée? Or shot glasses as wedding favors?"

He paused; it wasn't a rhetorical question. "No," she said quietly.

"Exactly. And when I see you walking down that aisle on November twelfth, I want to see you glowing with joy and excitement and love. I want to see Emma Swan, love of my life, feeling as radiant as she looks." She'd started crying again; god, being engaged was like PMSing all the fucking time. "You're an open book to me, love. If you're thinking about how much you hate your dress, or how bummed out you are that you won't be eating salmon for dinner, or how embarrassed you are by the wedding favors, I'll see it. And there's nothing I want more for our wedding day than to make you the happiest woman on this earth."

"Stop being romantic in the car," she protested, rifling through the glove compartment for tissues. "You know we can't kiss properly while you're driving."

* * *

A pattern emerged in the following weeks leading up to the wedding. There was no checking in about any of the concerns Emma had expressed that Saturday night, and since their conversation about the cost of all the dresses the following weekend, Killian behaved as though everything were moving according to plan. Obviously, things were progressing according to _his_ plan; he simply wasn't sharing it.

It didn't mean that Emma was in the dark. She had to be the one to call Regina and explain that Killian had been so upset on her behalf about the (secretly false) emergency dress recall, he had bought a new one for her. As she was assuring her mother that she still appreciated the gesture, and she was _very_ happy with her new dress, Killian walked in the door carrying a package. To her surprise, it contained brand new invitations … in a quirky, modern design done in black and red.

He shrugged when she mentioned they couldn't afford new invitations. "We're not serving chicken anymore, so we needed new response cards anyway," he pointed out. And when I made the order, I received a discount on escort cards, which will save us money when we're ordering those."

And so the invitations went out. Two weeks later, a gorgeous pair of deep red designer heels showed up on her dresser. "You'd better break those in, love," was Killian's only comment. "They look rather painful."

The bachelorette party was a Jack and Jill bachelor-bachelorette party at David and Mary Margaret's apartment, and involved a great deal of beer, a raunchy comedy, and the most obscene game of Cards Against Humanity any of them had ever played.

Killian was in the shower when his phone rang one night, and when Emma answered for him, she learned that he'd ordered a cake from their favorite bakery, which used copious amounts of very, very sweet frosting on all of their cakes.

When Emma called Mary Margaret about the bridesmaids dresses, she barely spoke before her sister interrupted. "Why don't we all just wear a little black dress and black or red heels?" she asked.

"That—that would be perfect," Emma replied. Clearly, Killian had gotten to Mary Margaret first.

David never mentioned the shot glasses ever again, and one afternoon, Emma found mini-notepads with "ES&amp;KJ" on the front, a bag of pens with "E&amp;K 11-12-16" on each, and a lot of red ribbon; Killian didn't say anything when he found her at the kitchen table, putting together the favors by herself, but he did smile.

All of the bridal shower gifts slowly disappeared, and a few gift cards for store credit showed up in their place; the registries mysteriously went missing.

Leo called one night to suggest Natalie Merchant's "Kind and Generous," saying that he'd taken another listen to "Daughters" by John Mayer and thought the lyrics were more creepy than anything else. She cried tears of joy when she ended the call.

* * *

The morning of the wedding, she woke up two hours before she needed to. It had been difficult to sleep, not only because of the excitement of _her wedding day,_ but also because Killian wasn't beside her. He had requested that they spend the night before the wedding apart, and that he not see her until she was walking down the aisle.

Two months ago, the decision hadn't bothered her, but with so many details entirely unknown to her (what _had_ he done with the florist? She knew he'd done something), she wished he could be at her side.

The day progressed smoothly. Her mother and bridesmaids were waiting for her at the salon for hair and make-up, and if anyone disapproved of her sleek up-do and thought she should wear her hair loose, or if anyone thought her red lipstick was a bit too much, they hid it well.

She thought her hair and make-up looked perfect, and that's what was important. And she knew Killian's socks were about to be knocked off.

When she walked into the bridal suite at the venue and found her dress hanging in the window—her perfect, beautiful dress that felt like it had been made just for her—she knew she had nothing to fear. Killian had fixed the problems she thought would be unfixable; if he could ensure she would walk down the aisle in her wedding dress, and not the fluffy ball gown, he could do anything.

There was a blank envelope propped up against the vase holding her bouquet (a simple bouquet of red roses wrapped with black ribbon). She'd have recognized it anywhere.

_My love,_

_Two years ago, this is how we spoke, through messages left under your doormat. While the days of communicating solely through letters are long gone, you should know by now that I could never let such a momentous occasion as our wedding go by without paying homage to the beginnings of our relationship._

_My dearest Emma, I love you with all my heart. I'm unable to completely express how complete my life is with you in it, and how happy I am that every day, I spend my life with you. Today, we make our vows in front of our friends and family, but I wanted to take this moment, here in this letter, to express just how much I love you._

_I know that the journey to this day has been a difficult one. The months when we spoke through letters were trying for both of us, as we tried very hard to let down our walls and allow ourselves the pleasure of falling in love. The mistakes I made during that time hurt you immensely, and while New Year's will now always be a time for celebration for us, I won't ever forget what I put you through. And, of course, we've dealt with all the trials and tribulations one could expect from a happy, healthy relationship. But we've always managed to come out of every disagreement even stronger and more in love than before._

_How fascinating that we'd be so excellent at communicating._

_And our engagement has not been a smooth one, mainly due to forces outside of our relationship. But I have good news for you, my love: our engagement ends today. In a matter of hours, we will no longer be engaged, but married, and we can forget all about calling vendors and declining the forceful suggestions of our well-meaning friends and family._

_We will be married. Us, married._

_The next time I see you, you will be walking down the aisle towards me. I cannot promise my eyes will be dry, but I can promise that any tears will be happy ones. I hope you are at least half as excited to be my wife as I am to be your husband._

_These past two years have been the happiest of my life, and I look forward to the many happy years to come. Thank you, Emma Swan, for making me the happiest person on this earth._

_With all the love and affection I have,_

_Killian_

And in that moment, the whole year of engagement melted away, and she could feel herself returning to how she felt the first weekend they'd spent together, tangled in the sheets and grinning foolishly at each other. She couldn't pretend that she'd known since then that they would be spending their lives together. But she'd remembered that bright, shining feeling inside of her, the one that said she'd stumbled upon something particularly magical.

It was the kind of magic that tricked a man who'd believed himself incapable of love into falling head over heels into exactly that. It was the sort of magic that could get past the defenses of a woman's intensely guarded heart. It was the sort of magic that could take something as silly as passing notes with a secret admirer and turn it into something that put the textbook definition of "happy, healthy relationship" to shame.

And it was the same magic that could take a ruined wedding, two months beforehand, and turn it into exactly what it should have been from the start.

She tucked the letter away into her suitcase and let Mary Margaret and Belle help her into her wedding dress. She already couldn't wait until tonight, when she and Killian could be alone, and she tell him just how much his letter had meant to her.

And find out what he'd thought of the letter she'd left for him, written on the yellow paper from a legal pad, that she'd slipped into the pocket of his tuxedo.


	21. Ghosts of Relationships Past

**Happy holidays to OptimisticGirl! I know when you and I joked about this particular situation, it was mostly just silly, but this ended up becoming really serious for some reason. Oh well - I think it still works!**

**And now, for your reading pleasure: Emma and Killian have an unpleasant run in with Walsh.**

* * *

"Happy first anniversary, Mrs. Jones." Killian raised his Bloody Mary for a toast as they were finishing brunch.

"Happy first anniversary, Mr. Swan," Emma replied, toasting with the remains of her coffee. It was much too early, in her opinion, for booze _or_ for chastising her husband about her last name. She'd wait till dinner for both.

"I know, I know," he said after taking a sip. "I just couldn't resist."

"Hm?"

"Your last name. You know it doesn't bother me that you kept it, right?"

"That's good, since I love you more than anything in this world and _still_ couldn't care less if it bothered you."

He grinned in reply. "I know. Honestly, I'm glad you didn't change your name. You're my Swan Princess—it just wouldn't be right if you weren't Swan anymore."

It was hard not to smile at the mention of the letters; sometimes, she'd reread some of her favorites, and her heart still fluttered when she'd read his sweet greetings. _My dearest Swan, my beloved Princess_. "Which is why it wouldn't do for you to be promoted to commodore or anything like that."

"Oi!" He pulled his pirate necklace out from under his shirt. "Pirate, love. Captain's the highest rank."

"Oh, stop, it's not like I was suggesting you'd be demoted."

"Fair enough. How's your Belgian waffle? Or what's left of it, I suppose—you demolished it. "

"Fucking amazing, as usual. What did you get again?"

"Crab cake Benedict. Would you like to try some?"

"Sure." She waited for him to set aside a couple of bites for her to grab; she knew better than to just eat _brunch food_ off his plate. "Oh wow, that is great."

"Aye, it's stupendous."

"Want any of what's left of my waffle?"

"No offense, love, but I'm not sure how you can eat something so sugary for breakfast."

"No wonder you can't handle breakfast cereal." He chuckled with his mouth full of Bloody Mary.

And then, into the restaurant, walked Walsh. Emma froze.

She wasn't exactly practiced in the art of bumping into one's ex, mostly because she didn't really _do_ relationships. She'd seen Neal plenty on campus before they'd both graduated, and every time it had happened, she'd felt sick and desperate and miserable. But since Walsh was the first real boyfriend she had after that, it really was the first time in about a decade she was dealing with this situation. And all she really felt was a strange sort of embarrassment, and an intense desire _not_ to have to deal with him.

She let Killian continue their lazy breakfast conversation as she eyed her ex, who was now sitting at a booth just close enough to make her uncomfortable. He seemed to be alone, but Emma could tell he was waiting for someone; he had that irritated look on his face that she'd always caught a glimpse of if she showed up late to dinner.

She kept one eye on him as casually as possible, just to see if he'd spotted her, as she and Killian discussed their plans for the rest of the day. As she agreed with Killian about their post-brunch plans (he was currently speaking in thinly veiled innuendo about how hard he was going to fuck her when they got home), and made some suggestions regarding what movie they should watch post-coitus (he was insisting on _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_ while she was pushing for _The Princess Bride_), a woman came in and sat across from Walsh, whose impatient expression didn't change.

Emma tried to stay focused on her husband. It was her first wedding anniversary with the most incredible man she'd ever met—she shouldn't be distracted by an unpleasant ex on a date. But as she and Killian finished their meal, the conversation from Walsh's booth became more audible, even over the din of the other diners.

"I just don't see why we'd have to have this conversation in public," he said loudly to his dining companion. Her reply wasn't clear (she was obviously using her indoor voice), but Walsh didn't really like it. "You can't just break up with me without letting me have my say."

Ugh. She'd heard _this_ bullshit before, for _hours and hours_ the night she'd broken up with this woman would run like hell to freedom.

She flinched as Killian turned in his seat, a curious look on his face; he was looking straight at Walsh. He turned back to her. "That seems like an unpleasant situation."

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't think that's a good reason to throw away a perfectly decent relationship," Walsh continued loudly. He was beginning to get the attention of plenty of other patrons. Mercifully, the check arrived; Emma had never whipped out a credit card so quickly in her life. Meanwhile, she could tell that Killian was still listening in on Walsh's breakup conversation, clearly intrigued by the drama.

"Poor lass," he said softly. "I can't imagine what she's dealing with right now."

"I can," Emma replied, rolling her eyes. "We should get out of here."

"_She_ should get out of here," he corrected. The server returned with the receipt, and Emma hastily scrawled in tip and her signature before stuffing her credit card back in her bag. "Wait, hold on."

"No, come on, let's go," she said insistently.

"Wait."

"I don't think you know what I'm capable of," Walsh was saying. Emma remembered him well enough to know there was probably no bite behind the bark, but damn if he didn't sound threatening. The comment certainly didn't carry the implication that he was capable of being a better boyfriend; it sounded much more ominous.

"Oh, that's not all right," Killian growled. "Oi, mate!" Emma practically ducked behind her jacket, which she had been in the process of putting on. "The lady is trying to let you down easy—might be best if you let it go, aye?"

"Oh god," Emma whispered. She prayed to every deity in the book that Walsh wouldn't recognize her.

"Mind your own business, buddy," Walsh replied angrily. "We're a little busy here."

"Suit yourself." She felt Killian tugging at her elbow. "Come on, love; I'll have a word with the hostess before we make our exit."

"Okay." She kept her head down as they wound around tables to get to the entrance to the restaurant. "I'm going to wait outside," she added, leaving Killian at the hostess' podium.

She gulped at the fresh air; she wasn't sure _what_ would have happened if Walsh had recognized her, but given the fact that he was in the middle of a dramatic breakup, he'd probably lose his shit.

Killian was by her side moments later, a dazed expression on his face. "That was surreal."

"Let's get out of here."

"We should; if that man recognizes me, I'm going to get a fist to the face."

"What?"

"Never mind. What matters is that I've alerted the hostess to the issue. Anyway, I'm sorry, love; I know this isn't an enjoyable way to end breakfast on our first anniversary."

"Nah, I don't mind having a heroic husband." She grinned. "Now, let's get the hell out of here before he comes out and follows us."

They were halfway to their car when Emma felt a tap on her shoulder. "Excuse me!" She turned to find the woman who'd been attempting to break up with Walsh.

"Oh, are you okay?" Killian asked as he recognized her. "Do you need any help getting home safely?"

"I'm fine, just wanted to say thanks for stepping in. I knew he was going to be hard to break up with, but I was hoping that he could have stayed calm in public." She laughed nervously. "Obviously, I was wrong."

"You couldn't have known," Emma said gently.

"Eh, I should have guessed," the woman replied wryly. "He gave me this long lecture towards the beginning of the relationship about how his last serious girlfriend had dumped him over the phone, and how horrible it was that she did that, so I thought this way, he'd have fewer things to get mad about."

"He sounds like quite the catch," Killian said sarcastically. "Men like him should come with a warning tattooed on their foreheads."

"He just wants you to call him a gentleman," Emma explained. Killian grinned widely.

"Ah. Well then, thanks. You were quite the gentleman."

"Why, I only do what's right," he said, bowing with a dramatic flourish.

"I hope this hasn't ruined your day," the woman continued.

"Definitely not," Emma replied. "I hope it hasn't ruined yours."

The woman laughed. "Nah, not at all. Well, thanks again."

Once the woman was out of earshot, Emma finally burst out laughing. "What is it, love?"

"That was _Walsh."_

"What?"

"Walsh. That asshole was my ex-boyfriend." Killian raised an eyebrow in confusion. "The one I was with when you started leaving me letters? The one who sold furniture? Remember? The Anti-IKEA Asshole?"

Recognition dawned on her husband's face. "No!"

"Yes!"

"Emma, I've had this conversation with him before."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"I bumped into him outside our building of all places, and he was on his phone, leaving someone threatening messages. They were along these same lines—whoever was breaking up with him couldn't _do_ this to him, had no idea what he was capable of, _et cetera._ I alerted the doorman at the time—he may have called the cops on him."

"Oh my _god."_

"Wait, she mentioned a breakup over the phone—"

"That was _me!"_ she exclaimed. "Oh my god!" Laughter continued to bubble out of her.

"Really?"

"Well, when did it happen? Before we were together?"

His brow furrowed in thought before his jaw dropped. "It was towards the beginning—you'd just told me you were single."

"I wrote that letter after I spent three hours on the phone, breaking up with him."

"This is absurd! I can't believe—"

"Hey!" They both turned to find Walsh, who'd spotted Killian and was storming up the sidewalk towards them.

"Shit."

"Shall we run?"

"Hell yeah."

* * *

An hour later, as Killian thrust into her, Emma's phone rang. "Oh no you don't," Killian grunted, thrusting even harder as if to prove a point.

"I wasn't going to," she managed to say, but then he shifted so that she was on top. It was hard to think about the phone ringing when his lips were on one of her nipples. The call went to voicemail and Emma came.

Later, when Killian was in the shower, she grabbed her phone. The number was vaguely familiar—with a local area code—and whoever it was had actually left a message. So at least it wasn't a spam call. She opened her voicemail app and listened.

"I don't know _what _you thought you were doing earlier, but you _know_ I have a great lawyer and I'm sure—"

She shrieked and threw the phone across the bed.

"All right there, love?" Killian called out from the shower.

"Uh, yeah?"

"You don't sound so sure!"

"Just … I'll show you when you're done!"

But he was out of the shower only a few moments later, dripping all over the carpet. "Hey, I said I'd show you when you were done! You're getting water everywhere."

"Emma, my love, we've been together for three years now. Are you surprised that I can sense when you're troubled? What's upset you?"

"Just … okay, listen." She grabbed the phone from where it had bounced and landed on the floor. She hit play and speaker, and soon, Walsh's irritated voice came crackling out.

"I don't know _what_ you thought you were doing earlier, but you _know_ I have a great lawyer and I'm sure you also know that what you put your accomplice up to constitutes harassment. Clearly, it wasn't enough for you to throw away a perfect relationship for no reason at all—no, I finally find another great relationship, and you have to ruin that through public humiliation! You can tell your boytoy that I'm coming after both of you for this, you know—I told you not to underestimate me!"

They stayed silent for a few moments after the voicemail ended, with Emma sitting huddled on the bed, suddenly very self-conscious about her nakedness, and Killian standing beside her, a towel wrapped around his waist and his fists clenched at his sides.

She finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For ruining our anniversary."

"How on earth did you ruin our anniversary?"

"I mean … well … this!" She pointed at the phone.

"Did you call him and ask him to leave an angry voicemail?"

"Oh, stop it, you know what I mean."

"Did you provoke him at the restaurant? Encourage him to be a right git to that poor woman?"

"Killian."

"Did you teach him to be belligerent and disrespectful and entitled when it comes to women?"

"Stop it. Please stop it." She sighed. "I should have stopped _you!"_

"Love, please, do you really think this man is a threat?"

"Well, I guess not, it's just a huge mood killer!"

"The mood's not killed at all, love." He sat on the bedspread, and she sighed—he was getting _everything_ damp. "Now tell me, as honestly as you can: is Walsh going to make good on this threat?"

She shrugged. "Probably not? I ignored his voicemails after we broke up, so I have no idea what threats he made without following through. I _do_ know that our breakup was going the same way as the one we saw today, though."

He reached out and caressed her arm. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You had no one to intervene. You had to endure that man's absurd and unfair arguments for a prolonged length of time."

"I was okay," she said, shaking her head. "Anyway, that's not an issue anymore. _This_ is."

"It's really not," he said emphatically. "The only reason I ask about the seriousness of his threats is that I'd prefer not to waste time and resources and _worry_ on an empty threat. However, I can assure you—as an _actual_ attorney, I have all the experience, skills, and connections necessary to quash this insignificant little issue." His hand moved up to her face to cup her cheek. "Please, my dearest love, believe me when I say he's full of hot air."

"The day's still ruined." She was only going to get one first wedding anniversary—she hoped—and now it was tainted forever by Walsh the assface.

"Not the way I see it."

"And how's that?"

"Absolutely delicious brunch? Check." She rolled her eyes at him, but he continued on anyway. "Intensely passionate afternoon delight? Check." She snorted at that one. "Dinner at one of our favorite restaurants this evening? Check. Putting the piece of human trash that is your ex-boyfriend in his place? Check. Rescuing your successor from a terrible fate? Check. What's there to be sad about?"

What _was_ there to be sad about? The discomfort and embarrassment she'd felt earlier was just a memory now, and she _was_ looking forward to the rest of the day. And knowing that Killian—her Captain, her love, her husband—had inadvertently made an enemy of Walsh _twice_ by doing the right thing was simultaneously entertaining and moving.

"You know what would make me feel better?" she asked, batting her eyelashes as innocently as possible.

"What's that, my dearest Swan?"

"Watching _The Princess Bride."_

He laughed, and the tension fled her body. "As you wish, my beloved Princess. As you wish."

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this additional scene, and I'd love to know what you think! I'd like to take a moment to emphasize that I had planned to write this piece for OptimisticGirl for a very long time, but that I'm not taking additional requests/prompts set in this universe.**

**Happy new year, everyone!**

**I am no longer posting stories to FFnet. For new stories, check out my page on AO3 (same username, phiralovesloki; there's a link in my profile as well).**


End file.
